


we walked home the long way

by akaparalian



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:03:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when people tell you you're infertile, they're wrong. </p><p>Sometimes, when people are upset, they do things they shouldn't, and don't do things they should. </p><p>Sometimes, people have babies and cry about it and, also, live to tell the tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we walked home the long way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bahormel](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Bahormel).



> So! This work is a gift for Bahormel, who prompted: "Avalanche, Gabriel Landeskog/Erik Johnson: mpreg from a one night stand, neither is out publicly". I tried my best to be faithful to that, and hopefully the final product is something you enjoy, because I sure enjoyed writing it!!! I've kind of always dug reading mpreg, but I've never actually _written_ any mpreg, so it was certainly an interesting experience... Anyway, like I said, I hope you like it, Bahormel, and happy (late) holidays!  <3
> 
> Thanks forever to [Abstract Concept](http://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept) for working her beta/cheerleader magic once again!
> 
> Title is from _Fireworks_ by the Tragically Hip.

They lose. 

They lose to _Minnesota_. 

They lose to Minnesota by _six_ goddamn points. 

They lose to Minnesota by six points at _home_ , and Gabe has to watch the stands start to empty halfway through the first, when they're already down by two, the Can weirdly quiet and almost shell-shocked with the absence of even the booing they all more than half-expected. After, he has to drive home alone through the icy streets to get to his dark, empty condo, where he has nothing much to do but sit on the couch with the TV rumbling lowly in the background and stare at the wall, because he's got no fucking idea what else he should be doing.

So when his phone rings and startles him out of his blank stupor, he answers without even checking the caller ID.

There's a crackling at the other end, then silence, and then it's Erik. "Hey," he says, voice rough and tired and grumpy, and -- weirdly similar to how he sounds right after he wakes up when he's been sleeping on the plane or in a car, a tiny little detail Gabe can't even believe he knows enough to recognize, and it makes it so unbelievably easy to kind of pretend that that's why he sounds that way, that it has nothing to do with the way their shots keep spinning away from the net or the way they can't seem to stop anyone at all from walking all over them, lately.

It's been... a bad couple of weeks, and this -- tonight -- has only made it worse.

"Hey, EJ," Gabe says, his voice sounding somehow too loud in his own ears. There's a huff of breath at the other end of the line, and then a long moment of silence. Erik's been hit by this harder than a lot of them, Gabe knows; he's the captain, after all, he's supposed to know shit like that. He's also, ideally, supposed to know how to _deal_ with it, and he tries, but, well.

He's having a hard enough time dealing with his _own_ shit, to be honest.

There's another sort of sighing huff, and then a throat-clearing cough, just awkward enough that Gabe almost wants to smile. "Um, hey," Erik says, voice dry, and then, "Look, I -- do you want to. Do you want to come over?"

There's a shit-ton there that he's not saying; it doesn't really take a master of psychology to see that, in Gabe's humble opinion. What exactly it is that's floating under the radar, well -- that's harder. But if he had to hazard a guess, there's probably some sort of relation to the way people have started to lean on all of them pretty damn hard, and all that seems to be accomplishing is cranking the tension up higher and higher. 

It's barely November, and it's already been a long, long season. 

He realizes EJ's still waiting on the other end of the line, that they're sitting there in silence and that he's doing nothing so much as brooding, and he does his best to shake himself out of it. He forces himself to smile, even though Erik obviously can't see him, trusts that it'll make its way into his voice and says, "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds -- great, that sounds good. I'll head over now, okay?"

"Okay," Erik says almost immediately, clipped short but also with a sneaking overtone of something that's probably relief, and then, nearly an afterthought, "Drive safe."

It's the kind of thing he says to everyone, because he talks a big game and he's missing some teeth and he's the big strong defenseman type that randoms probably think of when they think of hockey players, but he's also the kind of guy who writes out Christmas cards and thank-you notes to all of his friends and family and stops on the side of the road to pick up dogs that look lost, and doesn't Gabe know it. 

He smiles, and it feels kind of weird, actually, smiling after a night like the one he's had. Fuck, maybe spending some time with his -- friend, he reminds himself firmly, EJ is his _friend_ , they are _friends_ , do not think any other thoughts, do not pass Go, do not collect $200 -- maybe it'll do him some good. "I will, he promises," and Erik honest-to-God _grunts_ at him before hanging up.

Gabe's honestly a little disgusted with the fact that he can recognize that grunt as a pleased grunt. Then, because he is sometimes incredibly self-defeating, his brain kindly supplies him with a lot of other contexts in which he would like to receive EJ's pleased grunts, and he groans before throwing his coat back on and going back out into the snow.

The drive is quiet and strangely peaceful; there are a few soft flurries drifting around, but nothing substantial, and this time of night there are relatively few other drivers out on the roads. He turns the radio on low, Mariah Carey crooning softly about what she wants for Christmas even though it isn't even American Thanksgiving yet, and sings along under his breath as he waits at stoplights.

Maybe, he catches himself thinking as he pulls into Erik's driveway, maybe they've finally hit the bottom of their cycle. There's only so far down they can go, right? Maybe tonight will be the kick in the ass they needed to turn things around; the season's only a month old, they can still get things in gear. He turns the car off and does not remind himself that those are the kind of things he hoped after every _other_ loss they've dragged themselves through in the past few weeks, and trudges up the front steps to knock on the door.

He's barely put his knuckles to the wood when there's a hasty scrambling and the door swings open to reveal EJ, sort of red in the face but so clearly trying to look nonchalant that Gabe can't help but grin a little. "Not that you were waiting for me or anything," he says, raising one eyebrow, and Erik scowls.

"Get inside, asshole," he grumbles, but his lips are twitching up a little too, and -- God, it feels really, really good to be able to make him smile a little bit even after all the shit he's had chucked at his head lately. Gabe actively, valiantly tries not to think about this fact and fails miserably even as he follows Erik inside, shedding his coat and dropping it on the rack as he goes.

Erik's got his TV on mute, but it's on NHLN, the ticker tape along the bottom of the screen showing the final scores for tonight's game. Gabe very carefully looks away when he sees theirs start to make its way across and watches EJ's eyes track it instead.

"So," he says finally, collapsing onto the couch with an easy familiarity born of maybe a few too many of these post-game get-togethers, when they're both too tired to go out but too twitchy to be alone. It's hard to remember when this started, exactly, but it must have been -- sometime in his rookie year, God, how does that feel so long ago already? Then again, in a lot of ways they seem to be right back where they were then, despite all efforts to the contrary, and that… that's not a good thought. He forces himself to think of something else. "…did you eat already?"

The look Erik gives him can only be described as fondly exasperated, but he shakes his head and gestures toward the kitchen with one hand. "Nah. Didn't feel like cooking. Why, you hungry? We can order in, if you want."

"Sounds great," Gabe agrees easily, rewarded with a smile that hits him low in his gut, a fact which he tries his best to ignore. "Thai?" he suggests, and EJ nods, moving toward the kitchen where the menus are kept in a massive, messy stack on the counter by the coffeemaker that Erik keeps swearing he'll organize but, to Gabe's knowledge, never has.

They've known each other long enough now -- and done this enough times -- that Erik doesn't ask what he wants, and Gabe doesn't tell him, just wanders into the living room and flops down on the couch and waits for Erik to finish ordering and come sit down beside him the way he always does. He channel surfs while he waits, somehow a little more willing to do so here instead of just letting whatever comes up first play on the way he had at home; he finds nothing particularly interesting, so he settles for an old rerun of Community and turns the volume down low enough that if he were actually trying to pay attention, he'd need the subtitles. He's not, though, and the gentle wash of noise is nice. Besides, it's almost more fun to try and make up the ridiculous plot happenings on his own rather than paying attention to what's _actually_ going on.

Erik comes wandering back in a moment later, tossing himself down on the couch hard enough that the whole thing practically shakes, and jostling Gabe in the process. "Twenty minutes, they said," he says, and Gabe nods, trying to act like he doesn't want to lean in until their shoulders are touching and focusing on the TV instead.

Fuck. This night has been bad enough without having to put up with his own shitty oh-no-I'm-into-my-teammate angst. He sighs and turns the volume up a little.

They sit there in silence until the food arrives, and normally that would be fine, comfortable, even. Tonight, though... tonight it's a little weird, certainly weirder than Gabe was expecting, and it's a relief when the doorbell rings and they can go and get the food and at least pretend that the reason they're not talking the way they normally do is the fact that they're eating, and not some combination of the way their season is going and whatever it is that's hanging in the air between them every time they're alone together.

Maybe coming over wasn't such a good idea after all.

The food does help defuse the half-tension, though, at least a little bit; Erik apparently doesn't realize how hungry he is until he starts eating, because he's slow at first but then about two bites in he starts absolutely inhaling his noodles. It's really comical, actually, and Gabe grins to himself even as he eats his own at a much more sedate pace.

That doesn't last, though; it feels like it's all going well, and then he blinks and there's something nameless buzzing in the air again, settling under his skin until it's distinctly uncomfortable, making him glance over at EJ every couple of seconds and try not to notice when he catches EJ looking back, because he's been down that road before -- admittedly not with Erik, but he's blond, not dumb -- and it's not fun, waiting and waiting for something he's never going to get. 

Of course, it's precisely the moment he thinks that that Erik decides to say, stilted, unsure, "Gabe -- listen, I..."

Gabe waits, but he doesn't continue, just frowns and sits there apparently pondering whatever it is he's trying to say. He doesn't seem to be making a whole lot of progress, but that's fine; Gabe figures if it's important enough to make EJ's whole face scrunch up like that with the difficulty of trying to say it, he can wait a few minutes to hear.

He ends up not actually _hearing_ anything, because it's right about that time that EJ apparently gives up on using his words and just leans over, eyes screwed shut, and plants one on him instead.

It's incredibly awkward, the angle weird and Erik's breath smelling of nothing so much as peanuts thanks to the Thai, but Gabe feels his heart kind of stutter a little anyway. Partially it's surprise, but partially it's... well. He apparently isn't doing a very good job of showing the "well", though, because Erik's stiff as a board and starting to lean away, apparently under some deluded Midwestern impression that the lack of an immediate and wildly positive response means he's been rejected.

Gabe can fix that.

He sort of surges forward, knocking Erik back against the arm of the couch in his enthusiasm, and they're not in the most comfortable of positions, really, but he clambers into Erik's lap as best and as swiftly as he can and kisses him back with what's hopefully enough feeling to crack through his delusions about whether or not Gabe's into this course of action.

Really, how could he _not_ be? Erik's known him as long as any of his teammates, they roomed together, they spend more time with one another than, or so Gabe thinks, anyway, with practically anyone else they're not related to; he should really know better.

Granted, Gabe's put quite a bit of mental energy into concealing exactly how into this idea he is -- has been for years -- but that's not the point. The point is, Erik's melting under him in relief and tangling one hand in his hair even as the other one slides down to his hips, and Gabe's nipping at his lips with an enthusiasm that surprises even himself, and oh, this is it. This is what's been so strange all night.

"How did I not even notice we had unresolved sexual tension?" he says, sitting back suddenly, and Erik groans underneath him.

"I dunno, Whitey," he replies, sounding both indignant and breathless (Gabe tries not to feel too smug), "I really don't, I mean, I've been freaking out about this basically since I met you. But don't you think --" he pauses to palm firmly enough at Gabe's ass to make his point perfectly clear -- "we can figure that out _later_?"

Gabe grins at him, unrepentant. "Fair point," he concedes, and he leans back down.

\---

The problem is, they _don't_ figure it out later.

\---

They don't talk about it at all, actually. Which is... worrying.

Gabe was sort of hoping -- well. He was _sort_ of hoping they could maybe try for something that halfway resembled a normal relationship, but he should have probably guessed _that_ wasn't in the cards. Or maybe not, maybe that's selling himself short. He doesn't know, and he doesn't know who to ask for advice; well, that's a lie, he _does_ , he just doesn't want to, because any of the people on that (admittedly short) list would probably do more laughing at his expense than they would actual helping. 

Besides, one of those people is also the person currently at the root of his difficulties, so. That complicates things.

But he wakes up in the morning alone, to find EJ not only already out of bed, but already out of the house -- walking the dogs, according to the note on the bedside table, which, that's nice, at least, makes Gabe feel at least a little _less_ like he's no different from a random EJ dragged home from a shitty bar. But not that much less.

Not enough less that he doesn't sneak out with his tail between his legs before Erik gets back, anyway.

And from that point on, there seems to be a nonverbal agreement not to mention it, on pain of death or at least pain of a deathly awkward conversation. He tries, once or twice, but he's never successful, and all the while November's dragging on, and then they're into the first weeks of December and everyone's talking about taking a trip home over their short Christmas break or their plans with their families or how, oh, this friend of mine is getting married, this friend of mine is having a baby and he and his husband are excited and they're making me godfather, and so on, and so on, and Gabe struggles with it a little bit, because -- usually he and EJ would have done something, either just the two of them or with a group of the guys, but now he's not really sure they can be alone together for long enough without someone possibly detonating from the force of their own discomfort.

To make matters worse, their season's not exactly getting any better. And they're all trying, that's the kicker: it's not the kind of failure where they just roll over and take it, at least not yet. It's starting to feel like they're getting to that point, and they've sure had those nights, but overall they're still trying, it's just that they don't have much to show for it. And Gabe's the captain, for God's sake; he feels like he should be at the front of the effort to stay positive, to keep their heads down and work through whatever the hell this is, but he's finding that harder and harder, and losing his first choice of companion for cathartically taking apart everything they're doing wrong doesn't exactly help.

Neither does the fact that he's apparently coming down with the stomach flu, come mid-December. He wakes up already puking, which is a... unique experience; he barely makes it to the bathroom in time for the second heave, and the fact that he manages to get most of it into the sink instead of all over the floor is kind of a minor miracle. His muscles are tense and shaking, and he's sweating, and he feels _horrible_ , and it doesn't even go away once he's puked the way he thinks it probably should.

There's practice scheduled for later, and he ends up actually calling in sick for what he thinks may well be the first time in his career. Patrick had sounded distant over the phone, and not just because of a bad connection or something in that vein; it's been hard on the players, this season, but it's been hard on him, too. Maybe harder, even. He's just as firm and steady as he's ever been when he's telling Gabe to try and sleep as much as he can and take plenty of fluids so he can try to be back on the ice tomorrow, though, and Gabe's only too happy to listen and obey.

Most of the day is dedicated to curling up on the couch with Netflix and being miserable and feeling kind of weirdly validated about it, like he deserves this chance to really wallow in his own unhappiness physically the way he can admit he's been wallowing mentally ever since he left Erik's house without saying good morning or goodbye. He still isn't sure about that in the slightest; at least in the context of being home alone and nauseous on and off all day and tired and crampy and sore, he can admit that he probably fucked that up. It's just that he has absolutely no idea how to turn it around, because now it's been (he doesn't even have to do any mental math, he just _knows_ , which is embarrassing even inside his own head) six weeks and they haven't so much as brushed on the subject.

So, in the tradition of many, many, many before him, he watches romcoms on the couch and even eats a little bit of ice cream he finds in the freezer, validating it to himself by saying that a) he's sick so he deserves just a little, and b) ice cream basically counts as a fluid anyway, it's just a _frozen_ fluid, and occasionally breaks with tradition to run to the bathroom and puke.

He wakes up the next morning feeling worlds better -- at least until he starts trying to eat breakfast, at which point the smell of cooking eggs sends a wave of nausea crashing over him so fast he's left reeling and desperately scrabbling to turn the stove off so he doesn't burn the whole house down while he's puking in the bathroom.

After that, though, he feels mostly fine -- sore, and tired, but overall, fine, so he makes his way to skate anyway.

He's actually the second person in the door, because not actually eating breakfast had put him ahead of his usual schedule, even giving the unexpected addition of a good few minutes removing everything that had been in his guts into the toilet. Factor's the only other guy already there, just starting to set his stuff down in his stall, and he gets one look at Gabe before his eyebrows are practically at his hairline.

"You sure you should be here? You look like shit, Landy," he says frankly, crossing his arms and giving Gabe a none-too-subtle and none-too-approving once over, clucking his tongue just once to make his opinion even more clear.

Gabe rolls his eyes. "I'm fine, asshole, I feel loads better," he says, and Ryan shoots him a look that says quite clearly what he thinks of _that_ , but doesn't argue, just turns around to start getting ready.

He only gets about five more minutes of relative peace, though, before the rest of the team starts to descend, and every last one of them comes over to fuss at him in some capacity or another -- even EJ, who furrows his brow in a frown like the last six weeks of tension and quietly avoiding one another never even happened and pats him solidly on the shoulder in some kind of solidarity, before leveling him with a stony glare and saying, "Go home, Jesus, you look like you're going to die right here in front of me."

Gabe rolls his eyes, relieved to realize that his resistance to EJ's evil, evil, evil eyes hasn't evaporated with a lack of use. "I'm _fine_ , I don't see what you're all overreacting for. I felt terrible yesterday, but I'm better n--"

He's interrupted by Nate entering the room, one of the last people to arrive, which is unusual enough for him, but that's not the problem -- the problem is the open Gatorade that he's got in one hand, the smell of it thick and artificial even from all the way across the room. Gabe's taken surprise by his own sudden flash of nausea, diving forward and covering his mouth tightly with one hand.

"That's what I thought," grumbles Erik, shaking off people's worried questions and offers for help as he bodily drags Gabe in the direction of the nearest bathroom. Gabe just groans back at him, not really trusting himself to open his mouth quite yet.

Luckily, the feeling fades pretty quickly once he gets away from the smell -- he only heaves once or twice, and even then it's mostly dry, which only seems to make Erik even more suspicious. "You didn't eat this morning, did you?" he asks shrewdly, and Gabe pretty much wants to curl up and die rather than have this conversation right now.

"The smell of eggs may or may not have affected me," he says in his best attempt at dodging the question, and Erik rolls his eyes expressively. 

"So no, then," he says sharply, and Gabe feels himself flush.

"Look, EJ, I really do feel better now," he says insistently. "You're not my keeper, come on, I know what I can and can't take."

"Apparently you fucking don't," Erik snaps back at him, crossing his arms and leaning one hip against a sink defiantly. In any other context that would be funny and also kind of cute, but right now it basically just makes Gabe want to punch him.

He settles for rolling his eyes and running one hand through his hair instead. "Okay, your objection is noted. Now I'm going to go finish getting ready, and -- "

"No you aren't, I'm taking you home," Erik cuts him off, tone firm like this isn't even up for discussion, and -- yeah, that's about all of that Gabe can take.

"Like hell you are!" he shouts, admittedly a little louder than he'd meant to -- he doesn't miss the way Erik flinches at the sound echoing back against so much tile and porcelain, even though he manages to mask it pretty damn well. "What the _fuck_ , Erik."

He doesn't quite know how to get across exactly how incredulous he is right now, that Erik apparently thinks of himself as -- fuck, he doesn't even know what, _the boss of me_ is the first phrase that comes to mind but that's so juvenile he'd probably never let himself live it down if he actually shouted that in the middle of an argument. 

Apparently his point gets across pretty well anyway, though, because Erik winces, much more visibly this time, and ducks his head before taking a deep breath and letting it out in a noisy rush. They stand there like that in silence for a moment, both breathing more heavily than they'd realized, before Erik looks back up and meets Gabe's eyes.

"You're right," he says, so soft it's almost startling, and clearly still frustrated -- but, Gabe realizes suddenly, with _both_ of them, not just with what Gabe can maybe admit in the safety of his own mind might have been the slightly idiotic decision to try to come to practice still sick. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be an ass."

"You're succeeding," Gabe informs him, but his voice is soft now, too, and Erik snorts a laugh.

"Yeah, well, it's a talent," he says, and Gabe grins back at him a little hesitantly. Erik's face is some weird combination of flushed and sheet-white, a little splotchy around the edges the way it gets sometimes when he's really pissed. Usually Gabe sees this directed at the opposition, or once at Stats, during one particularly memorable team-wide Mario Cart tournament, but he's not used to being at the other end of it himself. It's disconcerting. Then again, he feels like this is maybe a little different than those times; he doesn't get the feeling Erik's about to check him into the sinks, or masterfully fill his bag with shaving cream every day for two weeks without ever managing to get caught in the act, but then again, it's a little hard to tell.

"I just -- I know I fucked shit up, with us," Erik says, suddenly, voice a little strangled, and Gabe's mind goes completely blank.

His face must shutter closed, too, because Erik seems suddenly very focused on his own feet, and he's -- oh, God, he's mumbling. At his feet. And his face has gone from splotchy to the color of an over-ripe tomato. 

"I guess I'm just -- not really at the top of my game, right now, with you," Erik says. "Uh. Metaphorically speaking."

Oh Jesus Christ, Gabe thinks faintly. He's breaking out the damn _sports metaphors_. This is going downhill faster than Gabe really knows how to deal with, to be quite honest.

"EJ, no," he says softly, half-leaning forward without even really realizing what he's doing, closing the space between them by just a scant few centimeters, but enough that Erik looks just a tiny bit less terrified. "No, come on, if anyone fucked things up, it was me -- or both of us. Let's compromise and say both of us, okay?"

Erik stares up at him for a second before actually laughing, and it's kind of derisive and shaky but, hell, Gabe'll take it for the moment. "You are _so_ European," he says haughtily, like being wholly American is any fucking better, and Gabe half-heartedly looks affronted.

They lapse into quiet, still tense but -- less so, like there's been a release. It's suddenly very apparent exactly how much clearer this makes the way Erik's been acting the past few weeks, and Gabe honestly feels kind of guilty that he didn't see it before.

"Did you think I hated you, or something?" he asks softly, and watches in shock when Erik flinches _again_ like he's been struck, that's like the third time in this conversation and Gabe's seen him take on two-hundred-plus pounds of burly hockey player without looking even the slightest bit daunted. It's actually slightly flattering. That's probably an asshole thing to think, though.

"Wasn't that hard of a conclusion to draw," EJ says, gruff, and -- well. He's not wrong, admittedly. This time it's Gabe's turn to let out a noise like he's been punched, shakily leaning back against the nearest available hard surface.

"Oh, fuck, I've been an asshole, haven't I," and somehow -- somehow that only makes Erik look _more guilty_. How the fuck does that even _work_?

"No, don't look at me like that, I totally have," Gabe tells him sharply, and he looks almost -- surprised. That's kind of telling, holy fuck. "EJ -- come on, I didn't hate you after you made me wear that awful shirt after Juniors, you really think I'd hate you over something like this? I was an _active participant_!"

He only gets a few seconds to enjoy Erik looking at him like he's sprouted a second head before he's being _laughed at_ , what the hell.

"Only fucking you," Erik says, honest-to-God _giggling_ , and -- in the face of that noise coming out of Erik Goddamn Johnson, Gabe kind of has to burst out laughing too.

They spend a solid couple minutes doubled over together in the bathroom, and somewhere in the middle of it Gabe finally gets close enough to pull Erik into something that halfway resembles a hug, and touching each other for longer than a few seconds feels... really incredible, actually.

Right up until the point when he laughs what his body apparently decides is too hard and gets the most incredible fucking cramp for a solid thirty seconds.

When he's done sort of grabbing at his stomach and gasping in pain, EJ's got his serious face on again -- but this time it's a little more open, so Gabe's going to take that as a good sign, anyway. "Okay, seriously," he says, helping Gabe get back to his feet and absolutely refusing to move the arm that's slung around his waist in support, "you have to let me take you home, you're not fit to be here."

"I can at least drive _myself_ ," Gabe protests, but the fact that he's still kind of struggling to take even breaths maybe undermines his point a little bit.

They stop back by the rink long enough for Erik to force Gabe to sit down and leave him for a grand total of maybe thirty seconds while he runs in, apparently fills Patrick in on what's going on to at least some degree, and comes back out almost before Gabe can even realize he's gone. 

"He says it's fine, your priority is getting better as fast as you can, not coming here and doing stupid things," Erik paraphrases -- though, actually, that could well be a direct quote, there's really no way of knowing, "and that I'm to get you to a doctor sometime very soon. Also everyone says to get well soon, and Nate says sorry."

Ah, fuck, Gabe had almost forgotten about that. "Not his fault," he says, rolling his eyes heavenward, and Erik shrugs one-shouldered even as he holds out a hand to help him up.

"I know, I told him so," he says as Gabe takes the hand and concedes to allow him to resume hauling/helping him along like he's little more than a sack of potatoes. It'll make Erik feel better more than it will Gabe, but whatever works. "I don't think he listened, but hopefully someone else'll talk some sense into him."

Gabe snorts to convey just how much hope he's holding out in _that_ regard, and Erik shakes his head in agreement, a smirk curling up one corner of his mouth. Nate's probably going to feel guilty about this for a while, poor kid, but there's nothing Gabe can really do about that right now. More importantly: "What's this about taking me to a doctor, though?" he whines, and Erik tuts softly at him.

"Patrick's orders, you totally can't fight me on this one," he says, and, uh, no, that's a lie, Gabe _absolutely_ can. How effective that'll be remains to be seen, but he can sure as fuck try. "Also, come on, it's been more than twenty-four hours, I'm pretty sure most normal people go into the clinic at this point. Who knows about freaks like you, but you can at least pretend, eh?" He grins, ridiculously pleased with himself for such a lame joke.

"Fuck you, who among us has fake teeth, asshole?" Gabe retorts. "Besides -- you're American, that makes you at least twenty times freakier than me to begin with."

" _Excuse_ you," Erik sputters, which may admittedly be laying it on a little thick on his part, and proceeds to defend his homeland with overzealous intensity all the way to his car, at which point he practically pours Gabe into the passenger side, though, luckily for Gabe's remaining dignity, allows him the honor of buckling his own seatbelt instead of doing it for him. God's sake, he's not _that_ sick -- he's back to feeling fine enough now that he almost wants to protest and say he really can go back inside and lace up.

Unfortunately, past experience with Erik in what Gabe mentally refers to as Papa Bear mode -- usually directed at animals or children, it's true, but this is definitely not the first time in Gabe's memory that it's been turned on a teammate, including himself -- tells him that that would be an incredibly futile endeavor, so he resigns himself to an afternoon of sitting around in waiting rooms and getting poked and prodded and fussed over. So instead he keeps quiet and doesn't even chirp EJ too much for his choice of radio stations, just settles back in his seat and closes his eyes.

He's a little amazed to be shaken awake when they reach the clinic; he hadn't realized he was that drowsy, but that's a bit of a moot point now. EJ's giving him this really weird look, a little pinched, like he can't decide exactly how he wants to react to Gabe sleeping in his car, so for both of their sakes Gabe stifles a lingering yawn in his sleeve and hopping out mostly under his own steam, though he makes only a minimal effort to slap away the hand that comes to settle, again, at the small of his back. He's trying to ignore that until later, when he can freak out about it in private, honestly.

They only end up waiting about half an hour, which is nice; what's not so nice is that nearly everyone else in the waiting room looks like they actually _do_ have the stomach flu, and Gabe's glancing around nervously more for EJ's sake than his own, trying to figure out where they can sit to be as far from anyone who looks contagious as possible without seeming rude.

By the time a somewhat harried-looking young nurse pokes her head around the corner and calls, "Gabriel Landeskog?" (several heads whip around in surprise, and Gabe winces, but it's unavoidable and no one tries to approach them on their way back to the exam room, at least), Erik's deeply engrossed in some magazine about fishing that was on the end table, so Gabe doesn't even feel that bad about leaving him there for the foreseeable future.

He pats Erik lightly on the shoulder before he goes and gets a glance and an affirming nod in return, and then he follows the young woman back into the warren of exam rooms and offices and God only knows what else. She, of course, knows where she's going, which is good, because Gabe's promptly lost. He hopes they're not going to try to make him find his way back out of here when it's over.

The exam is perfunctory and routine, if filled with a lot more frowning than he's used to -- she takes his temperature, frowns, asks him to describe his symptoms, frowns, does some sort of test, leaves him in there for half an hour reading an old copy of time he found in a magazine rack on the floor, comes back frowning. She's got a doctor with her when she returns, a severe-looking older woman who nonetheless is the first person to smile at him.

"Hello, Mr… Landeskog," she reads off of her sheet. "I've got a couple of questions for you."

Oh, God.

"First of all," she tells him briskly, sitting down and flipping through papers on her clipboard, "you don't have the flu. You don't even have that many flu-like symptoms -- just the nausea, really, but we checked anyway, and that doesn't appear to be the problem."

Meanwhile, the nurse is fussing with something at the counter on the other side of the room; there's a sound of crinkling cellophane and she opens and shuts cabinets a couple of times, but Gabe has no idea what she's doing over there.

"Second of all…" This time she looks up from her clipboard, and even though she's sort of gray-faced and stony, it's not hard to tell she's not altogether happy about what she's about to tell him. She looks a little sympathetic actually. "It says here you're infertile, correct?"

Gabe's heart stutters a little.

He clears his throat, though, and nods. "Y-yeah," he says, a little pissed he couldn't keep that stammer out. "I got tested about as soon as I could. That was in… 2008, I think?" 

The doctor nods, but she also doesn't look like that changed her mind about anything. "And -- is there any chance you could have become pregnant in the past two months?" When Gabe visibly hesitates, she adds, "Remember that your answer is fully confidential."

Slowly, his heart in his throat and guilty thoughts of Erik sitting out there in the waiting room without any idea of what's going on in here swirling in his mind, Gabe nods.

The doctor nods again, takes a deep breath, and says, "We'd like to run a couple of tests," and this time Gabe chokes on air a little bit, even though he was expecting it.

"Unfortunately, we have yet to come up with a male fertility test that's more than about 95% accurate," she continues, "so it's common policy to test someone with unexplained pregnancy-like symptoms who is potentially capable of having become pregnant in a reasonable timeline, whether they've tested negative or not, just in case."

Gabe nods mutely, but she seems to be expecting some kind of verbal response, so, voice thick and hoarse, he says, "Okay, that sounds -- yeah. Yes, of course."

The doctor nods shortly, and gestures for the nurse to come closer; when she turns around, it becomes self-evident that all that rustling around she'd been doing had been to prepare a syringe.

"Blood tests are more reliable than urine," she tells him, and he nods.

"Yeah, of course," he manages, and starts rolling up the sleeve on his right arm; he's done these enough times that he sort of knows what to expect.

After that it's almost anticlimactic; they take the blood, the nurse rushes off to take it somewhere mysterious, and he's told that they'll have his results in a day or two, and in that time he's advised not to do anything that might endanger any potential fetus. So, no drinking, smoking, or strenuous athletic activity, and he should probably lay off things like caffeine as well, just in case.

He checks out in a daze and he's almost surprised to remember that Erik's waiting for him.

"What'd they say?" he asks when Gabe wanders over to him wordlessly, standing up and stretching; Gabe realizes with a pang of guilt that he's been sitting out here for almost two hours, now. And also Gabe might be pregnant with his baby.  
Holy _fucking_ shit.

Because -- if he is pregnant, which, Jesus, that's a weird enough thought all on its own -- there's no way it could be anyone else's. There hasn't _been_ anyone else, not in -- not in months. Not since early in the summer. And even then, they'd been… a lot more careful. He flushes at the thought; he and EJ had both been angry and overwrought and uncharacteristically reckless, and it's almost humiliating to think about it now, especially if he's, oh _God_ , fucking _pregnant_.

He doesn't say any of that, though. "They're not quite sure what's up. They took some blood, said they'll run some tests and get back to me in a couple days," is what he _does_ say, trying to keep his voice a little frustrated but light enough and without any hints of oncoming panic. 

Erik frowns. "Seems like a lot of trouble for a stomach bug," 

"They're not sure what it is," Gabe repeats, and Erik doesn't respond, just resettles a hand on his elbow to guide him back to the car.

Which feels like it has a whole new context now, even though Erik's still blissfully oblivious. Fuck. Gabe's going to have to tell him, isn't he?

Oh, shit, worse than that -- he's going to have to tell the _front office_. He's going to have to look Patrick and possibly also _Joe fucking Sakic_ straight in the fact and tell them he's pregnant, and, oh, by the way, one of their d-men is the father.

It'll be a miracle if neither of them gets traded.

No, he reminds himself, they don't know anything for sure yet. Actually, there's a 95% chance that test was right, and he's infertile, just like more than two thirds of the rest of the men on the planet, and he's getting all worked up over nothing.

But then again, what if it's _not_ nothing?

His thoughts continue more or less in that pattern all the way back to the car, and then from there all the way back to his condo, and in fact he's almost all the way to the front door before he comes out of his thoughts enough to really realize that Erik's still with him.

"Are you coming in?" he asks as he unlocks the door, and Erik rolls his eyes at him, albeit fondly. 

"I asked you if I could before we even left the clinic," he informs Gabe, and Gabe winces a little bit. "You said yes."

"Sorry," he says sheepishly, moving into the condo, and Erik grins at him a little.

"It's fine," he assures him, stepping inside and locking the door behind himself. "Convinces me you definitely need someone around to make sure you don't accidentally set the place on fire or something, though."

Gabe flips him off without even glancing over his shoulder, and the laugh that comes from behind him tells him EJ definitely saw it.

They manage to hang out all afternoon and well into the evening without any more bouts of nausea; partially that's because Gabe goes out of his way to make the blandest food he can think of, basically plain whole wheat noodles with just a little bit of cheese and some leftover chicken on top, and EJ shoots him this _look_ like he sees right through it, but he doesn't comment. After they eat, they watch Netflix; as proof of how good a host he is, he graciously allows Erik to pick the movie, even though that means they end up watching some political thriller he never would have bothered with otherwise.

It's getting pretty late by the time Erik looks up at the clock, stretches, and gets up to leave. Of course, he refuses to walk out the door until he's extracted a promise, ironclad and practically signed in triplicate, that Gabe won't so much as think about going anywhere tomorrow except maybe the drug store if he absolutely must, and in turn he'll let Erik tell the team what's up. Then, as soon as he gets the call from the clinic, he'll call Patrick and fill him in. Also, he'll be sure to get lots of fluids, and rest as much as he can and -- 

"Yes, mom," Gabe's saying by the time EJ gets to that point, and the eye-roll and huff and reproachful glare that earns him only make him grin more. "I'll be fine, I promise. I _have_ been sick before, you know."

"This morning you showed up at practice, clearly still sick, and then the smell of Gatorade made you so nauseous you had to go and dry heave in the bathroom," Erik reminds him deadpan, and Gabe scoffs and waves him off.

"Yeah, and you in your infinite wisdom have never done anything like that, I’m sure," he says, shoving Erik towards the door. "Go home, old man. I'll be fine."

"I'm not that much older than you, _kid_ ," EJ grumbles back at him, as per usual, but he does go, tossing one last wave over his shoulder while Gabe watches him leave from the doorway before heading back inside and sitting down on the couch. 

He stares at the blank TV screen for a solid three seconds before deciding, fuck it, he's earned a little wallowing after a day like today, and he turns it back on and queues up _Love Actually_.

The noise fades into a background hum faster than he anticipated; he's more tired than he'd realized. He falls asleep mid-thought, wondering about where on Earth he's going to put a nursery in this place.

\---

Gabe wakes up stiff and sore and kind of cold and still tired; his phone informs him it's already nine o'clock, though, so there's not really much point in going back to bed. He gets up and tries to pretend he's a functional adult instead.

He makes breakfast for himself -- no eggs, he knows better than that now; he goes for plain oatmeal instead, and when that's completely fine he gets daring and puts berries in it, which also ends up okay. Then after breakfast he works out, keeps it light because the doctor said to and, despite what Erik may say, he's not actually that much of an idiot about his own health, and especially not if it could hurt the… the baby. With which he may or may not be pregnant.

That train of thought starts to freak him out again, so he turns on the TV and watches the first mindless show he can find, which happens to be House Hunters. That gets him through a solid three hours of doing nothing, by which point it's late enough that he thinks he should definitely eat lunch, except that -- joy -- the nausea is back, low and creeping this time but enough to keep him from wanting to eat at all. He forces down some crackers anyway, and luckily doesn't immediately spew them back out, but it's enough that all he really wants to do is sleep so he doesn't have to actively feel sick. So he goes to take a nap -- in his actual bed, this time.

He's awakened what feels like five minutes later by his phone, ringing too loud and too close to his face. His first instinct is to think it's got to be the clinic and panic so much that he fumbles it and drops it to the floor and he has to spend way too long cursing and digging around for it between the bed and the nightstand.

Of course, it isn't the hospital; it's Beatrice, calling because she knows he ought to be home by now. They haven't talked in about a week, so she's got plenty to tell him, chatting amiably and filling him in on all the goings-on back home.

Twenty minutes listening to his sister talk to him and trying to figure out how he's going to tell her that he's maybe pregnant are twenty minutes too many, Gabe decides.

In the end, when she asks, "What about you? What's going on over there, huh?", he doesn't tell her anything. Well -- he says he's sick, of course, hasn't skated in a few days. No, he doesn't know what yet -- he's waiting for test results, but no, of course he's not in any real danger, don't be silly. Yes, he's getting plenty of rest, he was sleeping when she called. He's got no idea when he'll be able to get back on the ice, but it probably won't be very long, no.

Only the last part is a blatant lie. Or -- _might_ be a blatant lie. It still feels weird in his mouth, because all he wants to do is pour the whole story out and listen to his sister cluck at him and tell him how stupid he's been and what she thinks he should do to fix it, because -- she's always been the smarter of the two of him, her advice is probably sound.

But he doesn't. He can't. He isn't sure how. 

He hangs up not long after that, having promised to Skype her or at least call her back at some time in the near future, feeling simultaneously better and worse. He's not nauseous anymore, though, and now that that's gone he's ravenously hungry, so he goes to make dinner.

The condo is dark and weirdly too-silent; he has to turn on the radio while he cooks to avoid a skin-crawling loneliness. It's weird that the only time he's talked all day has been to Beatrice, just now; his throat feels closed-up with disuse, but who is he going to talk to? He doesn't actually want to call anyone, or go anywhere, and he's not crazy enough to talk to himself just yet.

In the end, he goes to bed early; it's probably only eight or so, though he doesn't actually check. He spends most of the night tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable no matter how he positions himself and alternating between being shiveringly cold and sweating underneath the covers.

He finally gives up on even trying and drags himself out of bed around six-thirty the next morning. He's frustrated and antsy and has no idea how to spend the rest of the day, really, and - they have a game tonight and he's going to have to sit in the box and watch when all he really wants to do is be out on the ice, and so he goes for a run. Maybe he pushes himself a bit too hard, all things considered, but it feels good; the air bites into his lungs just so, and he can practically feel the blood pumping through every inch of him.

It's great, actually; he feels a lot better when he gets back, enough better that it doesn't seem quite so daunting to call Patrick and let him know he's not going to be at morning skate, he's still waiting for news from the doctor. 

"Your health is the top priority," Patrick tells him sternly, and he nods even though he knows Patrick can't see and says he'll be cheering from the box, at the very least.

He spends the rest of the day catching up on the little things he's fallen behind on the past little while: housework, answering emails, returning missed calls. He tweets about how much he hates being sick and the flood of notifications starts almost immediately, so he turns his phone on silent and leaves it that way until he's ready to leave for the game.

Apparently, his good mood is catching, because by the end of the first period the Avs are up over Arizona 3-0 and look like they're only ready for more. He goes down to the locker room real quick at intermission to say encouraging words, and the instant he pokes his head around the door there's a lot of excited yelling.

Almost immediately he's swarmed by loud, excited guys in various states of gross sweatiness; there are a lot of back pats and shoulder punches and a lot of reassurances that they're gonna win this one for him, so whatever the fuck's up he'd better get well soon, okay?

"Yeah, of course," he replies, laughing, and that gets him his hair ruffled excitedly by an enthusiastic Ginner. He valiantly tries to hide and fight the immediate urge to whip out a comb and fix it. He's pretty transparent based on the round of laughs that directly follow, but that's okay, it's probably good for team morale or something.

EJ hangs back until the rest of the guys have all had their chance to say hi and are getting ready to head back out. He gives Gabe a critical once-over, like he'll be able to tell right off if he's been sitting around at home like a good boy or not. Apparently Gabe gets a pass -- which is good, because he actually _has_ earned it -- because Erik comes in for a hug. Gabe almost thinks it takes the both of them by surprise; when Erik pulls back, his face is curiously blank.

"We're gonna win this one, Whitey," he says, and Gabe nods and smiles back at him.

"Score one for me out there, okay?" he half-jokes, grinning and clapping him on the shoulder companionably. 

Erik's face goes almost scarily serious and focused. "You've got it," he agrees, and Gabe -- well, damn it, he's sick/possibly pregnant, he's not in nearly good enough shape to bother pretending that isn't kind of hot and he isn't kind of blushing.

He heads back up to the box after that and feels uncomfortably warm the whole way.

Erik doesn't manage it until near the end of the third, but he _does_ chip one in; it's absolutely filthy and barely skids over the line and Gabe _loves_ it. By the time he does, the game's pretty much in the bag anyway -- they're up 5-1, 6-1 with EJ's goal, and 7-1 thanks to Dutchy's empty-netter after that with fifteen seconds left on the clock. The whole Can is electrified in a way it hasn't been in… well, in a way it hasn't been all season. It's a _great_ feeling. A really, really great feeling.

Just possibly not as good a feeling as it would have been if he'd been out there with them.

Gabe tries to ignore that, though, slipping back into the locker room afterwards to find that everybody's sort of shouting over everybody else and the post-game interviews are a little worse for wear because of it. He shamelessly dodges a couple of reporters himself, making his way back to where EJ is getting undressed and happily bopping his head along to the beat of whatever bass-heavy, nigh indistinguishable song is thudding through the speakers.

"Told you I'd get one for you," Erik tells him smugly as soon as he's close enough, and Gabe rolls his eyes at him but laughs and reaches out to ruffle his hair anyway.

"I guess you did, didn't you," he says, laughing, and Erik grins and socks him lightly on the shoulder. "You and the boys going out tonight, I imagine?"

"Yeah," EJ hums in agreement, tilting his head to give Gabe a critical look. "You probably shouldn't, though, eh?"

Gabe thinks about the blood test results he's waiting for and the doctor telling him to stay away from alcohol, just in case, and winces. "Yeah, probably not a good idea," he says, and EJ nods understandingly; Gabe tries valiantly to tell himself he's imagining the disappointment just shadowing the edges of his expression and fails miserably. "Next time, though."

"Next time," Erik agrees, and that fringe of disappointment fades away so immediately that Gabe can't help but smile.

He makes the rounds after that, makes sure to go over and be especially celebratory with everyone who scored, and then stops by Patrick's office and the trainers in turn to relay that there's no news yet, but he'll let them know when there is, which should be by tomorrow. Then, because it's getting a little late and he's unexpectedly exhausted after all the excitement, he heads home, humming along with the Christmas songs on the radio the whole way. 

The good mood lasts only as long as it takes him to get inside the condo and within sight of the landline, because as soon as he sees it he realizes that the little light that tells him he's got an unread message is blinking cheerfully at him and his breath sort of catches in his throat.

The message, when he half-stumbles across the room and stabs at his phone with shaking fingers until it plays, starts off crisp and clinical and forgettable. It's a soothing female voice, informing him that this is the hospital and his test results are in. He's not ill, she says, which is good. That's good. Wait -- no, fuck, that's _bad_.

"Your blood tests indicate that you are approximately six to eight weeks pregnant," the voice on the other end of the line tells him, and he doesn't drop the phone or scream or faint or anything like that, but he does have to sit down very suddenly, collapsing into the couch like his strings have been cut, and bring one shuddering hand up to cover his face while he very carefully forces himself to take deep, even breaths. 

"You should schedule a prenatal appointment as soon as possible," she continues. "The phone number for the male fertility department is--"

He stops listening after that, sets the phone down beside him on the couch and tries to figure out just what the hell he's going to do now. He should -- he should probably call someone. Patrick, the front office, his agent, his sister, EJ -- 

EJ. His brain seizes on that idea; he should call EJ, he has to call EJ, EJ deserves to know.

He ignores the phone still sitting on the couch cushion beside him and pulls out his cell instead, unlocking it and fumbling through the menus as fast as he can. He's got Erik's number pulled up and hit call almost before he realizes it, which maybe makes the wait through the ringing at the other end of the line more agonizing than it would have been otherwise.

He's almost unprepared when the ringing stops, though. "Gabe!" Erik yells, bright and clearly already drunk and way too loud, especially against the fuzzy background noise that sounds very much like a bar. Oh -- right. They're out celebrating, because they won. At hockey. Which is his job, very nearly his fucking _life_ , and which is also a full-contact sport which is very, very unconducive to _bearing a child_. For God's sake, it's the very definition of 'strenuous athletic activity'. He's going to have to miss the whole rest of the season, he realizes suddenly, possibly a good chunk of next season as well. They're going to take the C away at the very least, assuming they don't fucking _trade him_ or ship him off to Lake Erie, which are both way more likely options. And he's supposed to, somehow, tell all of this to Erik -- Erik, who slept with him once almost two months ago and hasn't spoken about it since. How in the _hell--_

"I'm having your baby," he blurts, then hangs up and practically throws his phone across the room.

It takes five solid minutes of yoga breathing and trying not to cry before he drags himself back together enough to acknowledge that, no, that was not at all the best way to do that and he should try again. When he goes to retrieve his phone, he finds that he has no less than thirteen missed calls, five from Erik and the other eight from everyone from Dutchy to Iggy. He… really, really hopes that doesn't mean that they've all heard, that Erik told them or something, but then again, they were going to find out anyway. Suddenly calling back seems like way too much to deal with until the morning, and he flops out over the full length of the couch and buries his face in the cushions and goes back to trying to control his breathing.

That works for about twenty minutes, when someone starts pounding on his door loud enough that he jumps and very, very nearly falls off the couch altogether.

"Gabe!" Erik yells through the door, as Gabe scrambles to get upright and across the room before one of the neighbors calls in a noise complaint. "Gabe, open up! Come on, I know you're in--"

The door opens on him mid-sentence, and that leaves them staring at each other across the threshold. Erik's still in his gameday suit, but it's rumpled all to hell, and his cheeks are flushed in a way that definitely means he's been drinking just as much as Gabe had inferred on the phone. 

"You didn't drive, did you?" is the first thing he can make himself choke out, and EJ frowns.

"I'm not an idiot," he says, gesturing behind him with one hand. "Iggy drove."

And that's when Gabe realizes that Jarome's standing behind Erik in the hallway, looking somewhere between embarrassed and concerned and -- protective? 

"I'm going now," he promises before Gabe can even say anything. "Just wanted to make sure he got up here all right. I'll talk to you tomorrow, all right, Gabe? And I'll keep the boys from saying anything." 

Gabe nods, swallowing past what feels like a cotton ball in his throat. "How -- how much do they know?" he manages in what's a pretty close approximation of a normal tone of voice, or so he'd like to think, anyway. 

"Not much," Iggy assures him, and that means a lot more coming from him and his relatively sober demeanor than it would from EJ, at least at the moment; Gabe practically crumples against the doorframe in relief. "EJ yelled a little after you hung up on him, but mostly the gist of it was that he needed to get to your place, because you weren't picking up your phone."

EJ's nodding in affirmation, and Gabe lets out a deep breath he didn't realize he'd been holding in. "All right," he says, and he finally steps back to let Erik inside. He brushes past while Gabe says his goodbyes to Jarome, promising that yes, he'll call tomorrow, after he checks in with his agent and the front office and everyone. Yes, he'll make sure Erik gets home okay. Okay, bye, have a good night.

When he closes the door and turns around, Erik's leaned up against the wall in the entryway, arms crossed. Gabe just stares at him for a second, then lets out a deep sigh and scrubs at his eyes before flopping his hand in the general direction of the kitchen.

Luckily, Erik's something like a local expert in nonverbal Gabeisms at this point, and heads in the right direction without any further prompting. They both sit down at the kitchen table wordlessly, and Gabe manages to do what he considers to be a pretty good job of staring into the middle distance to avoid actually meeting Erik's eyes.

"So," EJ finally says, and Gabe startles a little at the sound of his voice, sudden and kind of rough in the place of silence. "What the hell?"

Gabe winces. "Um," he starts; the problem is, he's got no idea where to go from there. Of course, he has to try anyway. "I -- I got a call from the clinic today. They, when I went in before, they took some blood and said they were going to run tests, because it's -- it didn't look like I had the flu."

There, that was -- that was pretty solid. All of that was true, too. But Erik frowns, brow furrowing. 

"I thought you were infertile, though," he says -- growls, really. "You said--"

Oh. "I didn't lie to you," Gabe interrupts hurriedly. "I didn't know, either. I mean, I -- when they tested me, when I was younger, they said I was, yeah? But apparently it was a, you know, a false negative. Or something."

Erik lets out a gusty sigh, putting his elbows on the table and resting his head in his hands. "Okay. Okay," he mutters, then looks up at Gabe, his eyes squinting like he's trying to fight for sobriety. "So -- you're sure? And you're sure it's -- mine?" He sounds like he's almost choking on the last word.

"Yeah," Gabe says softly, watching where it looks like it hits EJ as a physical blow. "I mean, the hospital said I was, and -- there was no one else. Just you."

He tries and fails to miss the look of surprise that washes across Erik's face, and the faint pinking at the tips of his ears that's surely just the effect of being drunk. Which, wow -- suddenly it hits Gabe that he's _drunk_.

"We should talk about this in the morning, though," he says firmly, and Erik blinks up at him when he stands like that's a complete surprise. 

"Yeah," he says, hoarsely, a moment later, and stands up as well. "Yeah, you're right."

They wobble down the hall together, and Erik hesitates in front of the door to the guest room when they pass it.

"It's, um. It's not made up," Gabe says, voice smaller than he'd like, and silently wills Erik not to notice the unspoken question there.

Of course, even drunk Erik's too perceptive for his own good. Or Gabe's own good, anyway. "Can I… can I sleep with you, then?" he says, only slurring a little, and Gabe nods slowly.

They end up on opposite sides of the bed, fully clothed (though considering Erik's wearing Gabe's pajamas for lack of his own, that doesn't actually help the situation that much) and not facing each other in the dark, but it takes Gabe nearly an hour to fall asleep anyway.

\---

He wakes up alone.

Again. Maybe that's just a thing with Erik? Too bad there's no one he can really ask.

This time, though, he's clearly still nearby; there are vague noises coming from the kitchen. Only Erik gets up on mornings after successful games and, judging by the way he'd looked and sounded last night, quite a bit of alcohol, and immediately goes to cook food in someone else's kitchen. Especially at -- Gabe rolls over and blearily checks his phone -- sometime prior to eight in the morning.

Gabe's beginning to question his own taste in men.

Still, he drags himself up and out of bed and into the kitchen with relative speed, because Erik's breakfast-cooking abilities are… well, not quite legendary, but better than the rest of his culinary repertoire, with the possible exception of anything involving a grill. 

Sure enough, Erik's bent over the stove when he gets there, making… pancakes, judging by the looks of things. He glances up when Gabe walks in and, lo and behold, smiles, albeit a little cautiously. 

"Good morning," Gabe says, coming to sit at the table.

"Morning," Erik responds, voice not at all sleepy. "There's coffee."

"I probably shouldn't. The, uh, the doctor said to avoid caffeine."

Erik frowns, then nods, processing. "Should've thought of that," he says, like he's berating himself, and Gabe feels his eyes widen a little bit at the sound.

"You didn't know," he says, trying to be reassuring, but Erik just shakes his head again.

"I did, though," he argues, flipping a pancake as he speaks. "I've been up for about an hour, I started doing some… uh, some research."

"Research?" Gabe squeaks before he can help himself, then clears his throat and tries again. "Um… what kind of research?"

Instead of responding, Erik just pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and slides it along the counter until it's closer to Gabe. When he gets up and grabs it, Gabe finds it open to a page called, "Eating for Baby." He almost drops it in surprise.

"I was going to make bacon, too, but it said to avoid red meats, and I figured I'd play it safe," Erik's saying when Gabe looks up at him, wide-eyed. "Also, you don't actually have any bacon. I thought about eggs, you should eat protein, but I wasn't sure, that seemed a little…"

He trails of, gesturing wordlessly with the spatula, and Gabe shakes his head slowly. "No, eggs are bad," he agrees. "I tried to make eggs the other day and puked for like half an hour -- but that's not the point. EJ, what's -- what is this? Right now. What's going on?"

Erik looks up at him, expression nothing so much as nervous. What the fuck. "I'm making you breakfast?" he says like it's a question, and Gabe shakes his head.

"Yeah, but you -- that's not what I mean. I mean, what is _this_ ," he insists, not even sure what he's emphasizing, but Erik seems to get it, anyway.

It takes him a little while to respond, though, and they sit there for almost a minute with nothing but the soft noises coming from the stovetop to fill the air.

Finally, Erik says softly, "You know I'm kind of -- traditional. About certain things."

Gabe nods, slowly, not sure he likes where this is going. Then again, EJ's whole face looks sort of gentle, not mad, so -- maybe? He doesn't let himself even finish that thought, because it's miles and miles too hopeful.

"And you -- you're telling me you're pregnant with my fucking kid, Gabe," he continues, and his voice cracks just a little bit on the word _kid_ , and it makes Gabe's whole fucking body stutter, practically. "I know you're not -- I know we're not, you know, dating, that's not what you want, but I can't… I don't want to not be a part of your life, especially now. And I don't want to not be a part of his life, or her life, or--"

"Hold on," Gabe interrupts, honestly a little surprised by the strangled qualities of his own voice. "Who says I don't -- when did you decide that I don't want to be dating you, what the fuck?"

For the longest time, Erik doesn't say anything, just blinks at him with his mouth hanging wide fucking open. He's dropped the spatula, too, and a couple of the pancakes look like they'll burn in just a second, but neither of them is paying any attention to that at the moment.

"You -- left my house? Without even saying good morning?" Erik says after a moment, but he sounds wildly uncertain. "Most people interpret that as one-night-stand behavior, Gabe."

"You started it!" Gabe fires back, incredulous and also feeling a little bit like he's been cockblocking himself for the past two months and he didn't even know it.

"I left a note!" Erik protests, looking a little outraged and mostly just surprised, and that's it, that's too much.

Gabe bursts out laughing, leaning over to bury his head in his arms on the kitchen counter and giggling so hard he can't breathe properly for a solid minute or so. There's a weird combination of relief, hysteria, and frustration pounding through his system, and he's making these weird high-pitched hiccupping noises that only start up when he's well and truly lose control, and it's maybe longer than it should be before he notices Erik's right there with him. Actually, Erik's got it worse -- he appears to have lost his balance and is actually sitting on the floor, clutching at his face and nearly sobbing with laughter. 

"We're idiots," Gabe gasps finally, reaching over to turn the stove off before anything bursts into flames as a kind of afterthoughts.

"Usually I'd argue that," Erik says a little ruefully, wobbling back to his feet and wiping what look to be actual tears from his eyes. "But just this once, I think you're right."

"I'm always right," Gabe scoffs, and Erik rolls his eyes at him but also smiles this weird, fond little smile and reaches over to lightly shove at his shoulder.

"You're -- you're serious?" he asks, with a wavering note of uncertainty, and Gabe can't help it: he leans over and kisses him soundly, a warm, certain press that turns into a gentle slide when Erik makes a soft noise and buries his hands in Gabe's hair until he can slot their lips together a little better.

Gabe's eyes flutter closed, and mentally he's kicking himself repeatedly for missing out on six extra weeks of this. Outwardly, though, he's settling his hands on Erik's hips and allowing himself to be backed up into the counter and held there while Erik's hands tug at his hair and curl around the nape of his neck.

They pull apart, and Erik's got this completely awed look on his face. "You're serious," he repeats, a little faintly, and Gabe smiles and nods.

"Only if you learn to sleep in, though," he says mock-seriously, and relishes the way he can _feel_ EJ laugh where they're still pressed up against each other full-body.

"No promises," Erik informs him, deadpan, but then he grins softly like he can't quite help himself. "In nine months, you'll be thanking me."

"Closer to seven, actually," Gabe corrects him absently, and he nods. 

"That's -- what, early August?" he asks, but the way his face goes contemplative seems to mean he doesn't really need an answer. Gabe watches him think for a moment; it feels ridiculously intimate, probably more so than it should, and he relishes it so much he almost shivers.

Finally, Erik's face clears a little, and he squeezes just slightly at the nape of Gabe's neck before pulling away and turning back to the stove. "We'll have to start telling people soon," he notes, and the little _we_ probably shouldn't be so thrilling.

"I was going to call Patrick later today," Gabe admits. "After -- agents, and everything. Both of ours, and probably I should call Iggy back too, since he asked me to, and my parents and Beatrice, and your family, and--"

"After breakfast," Erik tells him firmly, sliding the first batch of pancakes out of the skillet, and -- that's a good point. 

"After breakfast," Gabe concedes, and moves to get himself something to drink.

\---

Patrick almost cries.

Well -- maybe that's not the best way to put it. It goes more like this:

After breakfast, Gabe calls his agent, and Erik calls his. 

Peter Wallen is a lot of things. He's a great agent, and he's a nice guy, and he's a wonderful conversationalist, but he is not among that rare breed of person who can get a call relatively early in the morning from a client who is suddenly and shockingly pregnant and not freak out at least a little bit.

"You're sure?" he asks, voice crackly but clearly thunderstruck, and even though it's the seventh time he's asked that question, Gabe responds as patiently as he possibly can.

"Extremely sure, unless the hospital screwed up."

"Can you get it double-checked?"

"I'm supposed to go in for a prenatal appointment soon anyway, so I can ask then, but, I mean. The timeline fits, and everything," Gabe says, blushing a little and glad Wallen can't actually see him do it. 

"Have you made that appointment yet?" is the next question, and then there's a slightly tense, hesitant silence, before Peter adds, "Because that might be a good time to talk to the doctor about… that is, have you thought about an abortion?"

Well.

No. 

No, he really hadn't.

He can't believe he didn't even think of it, honestly. That's not the kind of thing that just -- wouldn't ever occur to him, not by a long shot. Maybe he was just too busy panicking and calling EJ to stop and think, but now that he hears the words, he's suddenly seized by the idea.

There's still a certain health risk, of course, but it's much less than actually having the baby. He'd certainly be able to get back to playing a lot faster; they could probably even sneak it in under the radar as just a really bad case of the flu, or, like, bronchitis or something, and no one would necessarily have to be the wiser.

Of course, that argument is met by the growing part of his brain that's whispering, _you weren't expecting this, but that doesn't mean you can't want it._ Is it wrong that, even through the haze of terror about how this is going to impact his life and his health and his career and whatever relationship he may or may not have with Erik, he finds himself a tiny bit excited at the prospect of having a kid? It's one of those things that he would write off as a long term goal, maybe even something to do after he retired, but, well -- that doesn't actually mean he has to turn it away just because it's come _now_ instead. Does it?

"Gabe?" Peter questions, and that's when Gabe realizes that he's been standing there like an idiot, mouth hanging open, clutching the phone to his face but not actually saying anything, for a long, long time.

"I," he tries, swallows past the lump of confusion in his throat, tries again. "I -- I have to talk to, um, the father. About that. I think. I -- hadn't really thought about it until just now," he admits, sheepish.

"Of course," Peter answers, and his voice is much softer now, gentle. "Yes, you should talk to -- uh -- talk to him. Just, I wanted to make sure you knew to consider it."

"Yes," Gabe says, "thank you. I'll let you go now -- I'll call you again soon, once I have more of an idea what's going on. Yes. You too. Bye."

He hangs up the phone, but he's not sure exactly when; his head is sort of buzzing, and it feels like it's going to fall out of his ears with the amount of thinking that's going on. How he manages to navigate back through to where Erik, judging by the silence, is also done with his call without running into any walls, he'll never know.

"How'd yours go?" is the first thing Erik asks him when he makes his way back to the living room; he sounds tired, and he's unceremoniously draped over the couch with one arm thrown over his face. It's kind of endearing, but Gabe's so far from thinking about that right now.

"Fine," he says noncommittally, then shakes his head quietly and reconsiders. "Well. Actually."

He doesn't have to say much more than that before EJ's sitting up, frowning. "What'd he say?" he asks, voice sharp -- maybe a little sharper than Gabe had been expecting, even, and he hurries to shake his head, hands outstretched placatingly.

"No, no, he was good," he assures him, sitting down on the edge of the couch cushion, nudging EJ's feet out of the way as he does so. "I mean -- he took it pretty well, he just had a couple of. Um. Suggestions that I hadn't really stopped to…"

He trails off, worlds away from being sure how to finish that sentence, but he watches understanding sweep over Erik's face anyway. 

"He asked you if you wanted to have an abortion," EJ says quietly, not a question, and Gabe nods.

It's not that he's… opposed to the idea. There are some additional medical concerns for men, but still probably less overall than _having a baby_ , which is after all rather stressful on the body. It would sure save a lot of trouble -- possibly save his career, for that matter. In a lot of ways, he knows it's probably the smart choice.

He's just not sure he wants to _make_ the smart choice. 

"Well," Erik says, somehow even more quietly, staring down at the floor. "I mean, it's your decision."

"That's the thing, though," Gabe counters, just as steadfastly not looking at him at all, because this conversation is slightly easier to have when he's having it with his carpet. "It's sort of yours too. I mean -- I'd understand if you didn't want to risk your career over this."

Silence. Then, "I'm still not sure I want to," Erik admits, and from the corner of his eye Gabe watches him sit up and draw his legs into his chest, like a child. "But that doesn't mean you have to… I mean, don't let me make this decision for you."

Gabe almost smiles. Almost. "I kind of think you might have to. I'm not getting very far by myself."

He risks a full glance to the side and catches EJ staring at him over the tops of his knees, his eyes wide and softer than they ever are and uncertain, unsure. 

"Well," Erik says finally. "Where are you so far?"

He hesitates. There are a few things, but really, they add up to one thing, one problem -- oh, he hopes it's not going to _be_ a problem, but he's not quite naïve enough to believe it.

"I want to have this kid," he admits, and it feels like letting a lead weight out of his lungs. "I'm just pretty positive it's a bad idea."

The transformation on Erik's face is enormous and instant: something lights up in his eyes, a little bit like relief, and he smiles, leaning back against the arm of the couch and unfolding. "I never asked you if it was a good idea," he scoffs, sounding a lot more like his usual self. "I just asked if you _wanted_ to. Having kids is probably _never_ a good idea, but most people seem pretty happy with the decision anyway."

"Yeah, but," Gabe protests, and there are a million ways to finish that sentence -- so many he can't quite manage to actually do it. _Yeah, but what if this kills my career? Yeah, but this is_ me _we're talking about. Yeah, but how am I supposed to raise a fucking kid? Yeah, but I've never_ done _this before._

"Don’t fucking 'yeah, but' me," Erik snipes back, smirking a little bit and kicking lightly at Gabe's feet. "If you want to, that's all that matters. It's not like I'm going to let you do this alone."

That probably shouldn't feel as good as it does, but it. It really, really does -- it feels less like something day-to-day and more like a thousand tons of good, solid iron chain linking them together, keeping Gabe tied safely to shore in a storm, something. Something good.

They manage to split back up to call their families, even though Gabe, embarrassingly enough, really doesn't want to leave the room again, being much more in the mood to soak up EJ's very presence, all of a sudden, but that's a stupid embarrassing thought that he decides he's going to attribute to Pregnancy Brain, though he's not even sure if Pregnancy Brain kicks in this early, and even if it does why his subconscious apparently thinks it deserves capital letters. 

At any rate, they _do_ split back up, and calling his family turns out to be much less stressful than calling his agent, even though it involves several times as many phone calls. 

Beatrice actually does start crying, try as she might to pretend otherwise. "You jerk, you said you were just _sick,"_ she says while gasping for air a little bit, and he smiles a soft, mushy smile that honestly makes him a little glad she can't see him, because if she could, she'd never let him live it down.

This time, he gets done before Erik, and it's his turn to wait around in the living room and tune out any actual words he can catch from where Erik's on the phone in the kitchen, honing in instead on the way the tone of his voice shifts and changes slowly as he meanders his way through talking to whoever it is, exactly, that he's talking to. It's soothing, in a really strange way, even though EJ's voice gets kind of intense at times, kind of serious. He's done within a few minutes, anyway, so Gabe doesn't let himself worry too much about exactly the level of comfort he gets from being reminded of EJ's presence and the way he'd said "It's not like I'm going to let you do this alone."

Their next call, once Erik finally does wrap up his conversation and come back into the living room to flow on the couch, is Patrick, and they figure they should do that one together, so they sit down side by side with Gabe's phone sitting on the coffee table and on speaker between them.

The ringing, which goes on for long enough that Gabe's beginning to doubt whether anyone's going to pick up at all, is absolute agony, really. Erik looks like someone is slowly pulling out his fingernails, the corners of his eyes getting tighter and tighter with each ring.

Finally, _finally_ , Patrick picks up. "Gabe!" he says cheerfully, by way of a greeting. "Good to hear from you! Feeling any better?"

Well. That good mood sure isn't going to last. "Um, hi, Patrick," Gabe says, managing for his part to not sound _too_ strained. "Yeah, I'm feeling a bit better, but, uh, listen. I've got Erik here with me, and we need to... to tell you something."

He feels like he's about to melt through the floor, and they haven't even gotten to the hard part yet.

"Oh, God," Patrick says, a little more serious but still clearly joking. "The way you sound, must be terrible. What, are you pregnant or something?"

Gabe doesn't see but _feels_ Erik wince next to him at the same time his own face contorts, and there's a beat of dreadful silence on both ends of the line, so quiet one could hear a pin drop halfway to Stockholm. For just that moment, Gabe doubts there's anything worse in the world than what's happening to him right now. Then, of course, Patrick's voice crackles back to life on the other end of the line and proves him wrong.

"You're kidding," he says, tone perfectly flat, and Gabe winces again.

"Actually, I'm, uh, I'm really not," he stutters, and the whoosh of a sigh on the other end of the line tells him all he needs to know.

"...You're sure?" Patrick asks after another moment of pause, his voice quiet and strained and, well, Gabe's honestly not sure if that's better or worse than him being furious. The jury's still out.

"We're sure," Erik replies firmly, speaking up for the first time. "The blood results from the hospital came back yesterday. Turns out Gabe's fertility test was a false negative."

"EJ, why are you even -- oh, _no_ ," Patrick groans, cutting himself off with a muffled curse.

They glance at each other nervously, while on the other end of the line Patrick swears some more and does something that involves the sound of paper being rapidly shuffled, before loosing a punched-out sigh. "Well, I guess I should ask if there's something you want to tell me," he says finally, "but I guess it's obvious, eh? _Tabarnak._ "

He doesn't actually sound -- mad, is the thing. Frustrated, maybe, and they've surely taken him by surprise, but he at least doesn't _sound_ like he's about to tell them they're both being traded to Buffalo, where they can fuck too far away from him to cause any more problems. Maybe that's wishful thinking, though.

There's some more paper shuffling, and some muttered French that's too low and muffled to catch, even if they would have stood much of a chance of understanding it in the first place -- which, actually, Gabe's knowledge of Quebecois swearing is pretty good, so there's a solid chance. EJ has this look on his face like he's just about to open his mouth and start arguing his (their) case when Patrick starts up again where they can both hear and understand him, though.

"You're idiots," he tells them firmly. "Both of you. They don't teach you about condoms in America _or_ Sweden? But don't worry, you're _my_ idiots. You both talked to your agents already?"

"Yeah," Gabe affirms, relief coursing through him even as EJ shoots him a cautious glance that probably means he ought to not count his chickens before they're all the way hatched, or something. EJ's full of weird idioms. _Everyone_ from the American Midwest is probably full of weird idioms. "We just got off the phone."

"And your families?" Patrick says sternly, and Gabe feels a rush of affection.

"Of course," he assures him, Erik nodding beside him even though Patrick can't see him. "You were our third call. We thought it was better to call you before we tried to get in touch with the front office, especially because we figured we'd… want our agents in the room for that one. Or at least on speakerphone."

"I wouldn't be so worried," Patrick counters, then pauses. "Well. I would, but -- look, neither of you is getting traded for this, not if I have something to say about it, eh? You both have too much left in you. We can't lose you. And even if we could, this isn't something to lose you over."

He sounds so certain of it, like he's willing to get down and fight for them, and Gabe can feel the way Erik shifts in surprise next to him, like he's just slightly uncomfortable with the idea of support, squirming in his seat. On the one hand, it does feel almost too easy, but on the other -- well, it's _Patrick_. If nothing else, he's shown them these last couple of years that he's got no shortage of loyalty, not if you show him yours first. 

Besides, Gabe has more than a sneaking suspicion that not everyone will react nearly so well, and that makes it that much easier to let himself close his eyes for just an instant and sink into the relieved feeling of having something like an ally.

Then, of course, he opens his eyes and forces himself to get back to business.

"Thank you," he says as sincerely as he knows how, and from the acknowledging grunt on the other end of the line, he thinks it comes across. Then he continues, voice a little more brisk. "Due date's the beginning of August. So, I mean… I'll have to miss the rest of the season, but I'll be back in time for next season almost for sure."

Patrick makes a considering noise. "Well, that's not going to be easy," he admits. "But we can work with that -- do you think you could still come skate, no-contact, you know?"

"I really hope so," Gabe replies, maybe a little too eagerly if EJ's snort beside him and Patrick's chuckle are any indication. "I think it should be fine, to a point, you know. I've gotta keep in shape somehow, and if I keep it gentle it should be fine. But I'll have to ask the doc for specifics."

"Yes, you do that. Don't want to hurt the little bean," Patrick says, completely serious, and EJ has a sudden and fierce coughing fit, his face contorting with the effort of keeping in actual laughter.

Gabe thwaps him on the shoulder, but that just seems to make it worse.

"I'll, uh, keep that in mind," he says, trying to choke down laughter himself, but also completely incapable of stopping the way his voice softens just slightly when he adds, "Thank you, Patrick. Really."

"You're welcome," Patrick returns just as sincerely. "Now promise me you'll never do this again. Ever. Christ, if I had any hair left that wasn't gray, it's gone now."

"We'll try our best," Erik says, smirking, and Gabe hits him on the arm again.

"I'll let you know when we get something set up with the front," Gabe says, valiantly trying to pretend that Erik never said that and that he and Patrick aren't presently both cackling about it. "It'll be soon, probably -- we really need to get this sorted, sooner rather than later."

"I'll keep my lips shut until then."

"Thanks," Gabe says, and, once again, he really means it. "Okay, then, talk to you soon."

"Stay out of trouble," Patrick replies, and hangs up before Gabe can.

He slowly picks up his phone and flips it around in his hands. "Well," he says, glancing over at Erik and finding that he looks a little bit like the cat that caught the canary -- see, another one of those weird-ass idioms. "That was…"

"Interesting?" Erik supplies, his whole body contorting with the effort of trying to maintain something resembling a straight face.

"To say the least," Gabe agrees, finally letting himself laugh, too, and it takes over a minute of he and Erik falling all over each other laughing and relishing in the sweet, relieved feeling that Patrick seems to have left them with before they're capable of doing much else at all.

\---

Gabe doesn't wake up the next morning expecting to go into battle. In fact, he wakes up pretty calm, calmer than he's been in days -- maybe in part that's because a) Erik's still here, though he did leave briefly yesterday afternoon to pick up some things from his place, and b) Erik's _still here,_ as in, actually still in bed for once. It's practically a miracle, and certainly a good way to start things off.

Of course, then he gets up to find that he's already got a missed call from the front office, and one from Wallen, too, neither of which, of course, is a good sign.

He listens to the one from the Avs first. It's not a voice he recognizes, though whoever it is identifies himself as Adam Ward, who's calling on behalf of management, "to ask that you please attend a meeting at three o'clock today." The one from Wallen says pretty much the same thing, and also, "Don’t worry, I'll be there."

Gabe puts his phone down and sighs. So much for that good mood.

Turns out Erik got pretty much the same matching set of phone calls from the front office and _his_ agent -- which actually makes Gabe feel much better; Wallen and Roy and probably a few other friendly faces in the room notwithstanding, he thinks he'll feel a lot less alone in there if Erik's there, too. Also a lot less likely to puke on the conference table -- which, actually, he'd better be really careful about what he eats this morning, because that's a terrible but terribly possible reality that he never, ever wants to see come to pass.

The two of them get up and get dressed and eat and lay around together for a few hours, reading the paper and watching TV and catching up on e-mail and other stupid mindless tasks which they accomplish more or less silently. This is big; Gabe thinks they're not only justified in their nervousness, but _right_ to be nervous. That doesn't mean, though, that trying to find ways to kill time without driving himself nuts and watching Erik try to do the same isn't making him feel more and more like he's a bowstring drawn too tight, about to snap.

Finally, finally, it's time to go; Erik drives, because he's, well, because he insisted and gave Gabe this _look_ when he tried to protest. Something tells him that that's going to rear its head as an argument eventually, but for now… well. For now, Gabe lets him drive, because he's too balled up in nerves to fight about it.

They didn't speak at home, and they don't speak in the car, either, or on their way up to the room where this meeting is evidently being held. Gabe does reach over and brush a speck of lint off Erik's jacket at one point, but that's more or less as close as they're getting to real communication at the moment, especially because that horrifying image of puking all over the conference table is looking more and more like it might become reality.

It seems almost too soon when they reach the mild-mannered doorway to what Gabe suspects it probably going to be his personal hell, and he can't quite put his hand to the handle for a second, has to breathe and square his shoulders and remind himself that Erik's right here with him, quite literally right there at his side, their sleeves brushing just slightly, more than close enough to reach out and touch. It turns out that that's enough.

When he manages to open the door, it's to the sight of more people in suits than he's seen since the draft. Gabe's not sure at all that this is a good sign; after all, if it takes that many suits to _start_ his career, it could sure take the same number to end it.

At least Erik's there with him -- and Patrick, smiling a restrained but nonetheless reassuring smile from a few meters away. And, of course, both agents are there, and Joe Sakic, but beyond that, well… it's hard to describe any of the other faces as _friendly_ , really. Not that they're necessarily _un_ friendly, just tense, and vaguely nervous, and making Gabe more tense and nervous by extension.

Adam Ward turns out to be a slightly stocky dark-haired guy who reports to Sakic, apparently, and who believes in way, way overusing hair product. He smiles, but it's a slightly unsettling smile, a little too wide. He seems nice enough, but Gabe can't help being nervous anyway. 

Things start off okay. Ward's doing most of the talking -- apparently he's been put in charge of this, or at least of preparing for this meeting, or something, because he rattles on and on about, "the organization is prepared to support you," and "there are some concerns, but PR is coming up with contingencies," and about a million other things. So far, he hasn't said anything that makes Gabe's stomach lurch too badly, or sends that cold shiver running down his spine in a way that says, _This is it._ But, well… so far.

"No one wants this to end your career," he's saying earnestly, and that's great and all, but there's something about the way he says it and the particular light in his eyes that makes Gabe more than a little wary, in a way that feels almost sudden, though surely it's been there all along. "The way we see it, you have essentially two options going forward."

Gabe exchanges a look with Erik, glad to see he still looks just as guarded -- well, of course he does, it's _Erik_ , but still -- before nodding slowly. "And what are those options?"

"Well, firstly, you keep quiet," Sakic interjects finally, leaning forward in his seat and meeting Gabe's gaze levelly. "We say you have a lower-body injury, sustained in practice, and we keep you out of the media as much as we can. We can talk more in nine months, depending on exactly how you want to handle things once there's a physical baby in the picture, but largely you -- both of you -- and everyone else involved stick to no-commenting everything anyone should think to ask."

Gabe tilts his head. That all seems obvious enough -- that's more or less what he was expecting to hear. "So then what's the second option?"

Sakic takes a deep breath, exchanges looks with a couple of other people seated around the room, and leans forward in his chair, crossing his arms on the table. "If you want to come out, we're willing to support that, if you're willing to take the time to plan with PR and deal with all of the bullshit that's going to bring down on your head, on top of having a baby."

It's all he can do to blink and swallow hard. "That. Um. To be honest, I… hadn't even really considered that you would be willing to go down that road," he manages, and finds that it's the perfect truth.

Sakic shrugs one-shouldered and smiles at him, a little playful. "Somebody's gotta do it eventually."

"What Joe means is that, we think this could actually be a good opportunity for the team," Patrick cuts in from his seat across the table, and Gabe turns to look at him and tries to pretend it isn't a tiny bit comforting to be focusing on someone he actually knows relatively well, in a room full of people he mostly only knows in passing, if that. "It's a big thing, and, yes, there would be a lot of backlash. But also maybe it could be good for you -- for both of you -- I don't know how well I'm going to be able to expect you to play if you're keeping this sort of secret," he jokes, and Gabe can't help but grin a little bit.

"It also presents a singular PR opportunity," Ward butts back in, his too-styled hair glinting unhealthily in the bright lights of the conference room, and the whole table seems to freeze for a moment.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, EJ's the first to break.

"You want to _merchandize the baby_?" he asks, incredulous, and Gabe wants to laugh again, but he's not sure if it's real humor or mild hysteria.

"Well, no, I wouldn't put it that way," Ward protests, and Sakic shoots him a _look_.

"I'm sure you understand that there will be a lot of consequences to this," he says, and Gabe pulls his eyes away from Ward's hair by pure force of will. "But there are going to be consequences either way, and there's always the possibility that if you do chose to -- well, to stay closeted, that you'll be outed anyway. At least this way, it could be on your terms."

He finds himself nodding, unsure quite what he's agreeing with, if he's agreeing with anything at all. "We'll need some time to think about it," he says, glancing at Erik and feeling a little trickle of relief when he gets a half-smile in return. Out of the corner of his eye, too, he sees Peter Wallen incline his head at him, where he's been sitting mostly silent for this whole thing, just watching. 

"Of course," Sakic agrees easily, almost reassuringly. "We wouldn't expect you to make a choice like this overnight. And, obviously, nothing leaves the room until the both of you do make that choice."

"Thank you," Gabe says, and he means it, but that's about all he's sure of, even as everyone stands up and he shakes a lot of hands and trails out of the room behind Erik, vaguely dazed.

\---

They drove in together, so, of course, they drive back out together, too. _Back home,_ Gabe thinks, and it _is_ his home, it is, it's his condo, but for the past few days, it's also been Erik's, and he's still not used to that concept. He doesn't know how it hasn't really struck him before, honestly, but with everything else swirling around in his head almost aimlessly, that's the thing he latches onto as Erik drives them through the icy streets.

Neither of them says a word until they're well and truly home, inside, door locked, coats in the coat closet and shoes toed off by the door. They're quiet, both of them, and even their movements feel sort of muffled, and the air seems heavy with anticipation, and then all of a sudden, as they're walking to the living room on an unspoken agreement, Erik's whirling around to face him and they nearly crash into each other and his eyes are wild and uncertain and a tiny bit wild, his mouth hanging open and sort of gumming at words he can't quite seem to get out.

Finally, he says, "Well, what the hell do you think?" He seems satisfied enough with that, because he shuts his mouth with a soft snap, and looks at Gabe expectantly.

Gabe takes a deep breath and heaves it out as a sigh. He'd like to say something well-thought out and responsible and mature and reasoned, feels like, even now, even between the two of them, he's sort of expected too, but, well. "I have no fucking idea," he admits, and almost winces at the grim, slightly disappointed way Erik nods.

"I mean. Coming out is a crazy idea, right?" he says, paradoxically hesitant and self-assured, and Gabe winces a little bit.

"I was sort of… definitely considering it?" 

Erik stares at him like he's just declared that he's going to paint himself red and move to Detroit. " _What?_ "

"What do you mean, _what?_ " Gabe asks defensively. "It's -- I mean, Joe and Patrick have a point, you know? I don’t think I'll be able to stay closeted forever, that's just… that's not realistic at all with a, with a _baby_ involved."

"It'll be pretty hard to explain to a certain percentage of the fans why two of their top players are suddenly fucking, Gabe," Erik half-growls. "Look -- it fucking sucks, but people aren't just going to pat us on the back and smile, and they're not just going to stay quiet about it, either. I don't care what Sakic says, this could still end both of our careers, and you know it."

And that's true. All of that's true. But hearing Erik say it rankles something in him, some sort of self-righteous feeling that tells him _to hell with that, do what you want and be proud of it_. He squashes it down, because it's not exactly helpful, and right now -- right now, he needs to focus on the practical.

"It'll also be pretty damn hard to explain the fact that I've mysteriously acquired a _baby_ ," he half-snaps back. "What, do you think we can just hide the kid in my condo forever? We're going to have to answer those questions sometime, EJ."

Erik's silent for a moment, his mouth a hard line and his eyes stony. Then he shakes his head, just once, and reaches up to scrub a hand through his hair. "But does it have to be _now?_ On top of everything else? I would've thought being pregnant was enough stress to handle for at _least_ nine months."

"I don't think waiting it out will help," Gabe fires back, but his tone's a little softer now, because -- Erik may be succeeding at being a bit of an ass, but that's not actually what he's _trying_ to do, after all. "I think it'll just make me feel worse when I do have to deal with it. Why not just -- get it over with now?" He fiddles with the end of one sleeve, feeling a little bit like he should reach out and touch Erik somehow, as a physical tether, but also feeling like that would be a supremely bad idea, because the longer he hesitates before responding, the more he looks like a volcano about two seconds from erupting.

"Because I’m not sure I'm ready to do that with you," Erik finally bursts, and it's a bit like a dam breaking; the force of it hits Gabe in the chest and knocks the air out of him. Erik's eyes don't leave his face, just track over him waiting for a reaction, and God, but Gabe wants to give him one.

It's just that he doesn't quite know how to respond to that.

"I… I didn't even realize that was on the table," he admits, and he feels like both an idiot and an asshole when Erik's eyes widen minutely.

"Of course it is," EJ says blankly, like he had never really even considered anything different. "I told you I wasn't going to let you do this alone, and I meant it."

"Oh," Gabe peeps, voice seeming terribly small.

"Oh," Erik agrees, flushing a little now that he realizes what's going on. "I, um -- didn't realize you didn't realize that. Sorry."

"You have to be more clear with stuff like that," he protests, but it's half-hearted at best, and he hesitates before adding, more softly, "You'd seriously...?" _For me?_ is unspoken, but hangs in the air anyway, quiet but deadly important.

"Yeah," Erik says, soft, measured. "Yeah, I really would."

His eyes are miles gentler than they have been all day; where his face was steel and ice in the meeting, now it's warm and reactive and comparatively wide open. There's a definite sort of emotion planted across the track of his eyes and the bow of his mouth, and Gabe shuts himself down hard before he can put a name to it, make it real. 

"I -- I mean, I don't want to force you to do anything like that," he says instead. "I could always keep the paternity a secret, I think people would respect that, you know? But I think… I think I might have to do this. I think this might be what's best for me, EJ, I can't… I don't know if I can live in the closet, not if there's a baby, too. And at least this way, it can be on my terms." Hopefully.

"You think so?" Erik asks him, but he's not doubtful, not really -- it's more like he's checking in, just trying to make sure Gabe's not diving in too soon, leaping without looking.

And, well, Gabe's not particularly sure of anything right now; at this very moment it feels like he barely knows which way is up, but he tries anyway. 

"I do," he says, as firmly as he can manage, and Erik's face subtly clears, something settling and resolving behind his eyes.

"Then… okay," he says, and it sounds nothing if not final.

\---

They don't bother actually going back in in the morning, partly because Gabe's back around to not feeling so great and he's already had to run out of the room twice to go vomit in the bathroom. Instead, they just call up Joe Sakic, because they figure it'll be easier -- especially since they can both conference in their agents as well.

Honestly, Gabe's nauseous as hell, and he has a splitting headache, and he doesn't remember half of the conversation afterwards. But Erik assures him it went well, and that they all arrived at the following conclusion, something of a compromise between the two options Adam West had so kindly given them: they'll come out, they both will, but not until the baby's born. Until then, Gabe will be 'out with a lower body injury', and no one will be the wiser.

Well. Except the team. Who, all at once, they realize they're probably going to half to tell sooner rather than later, because they'll all see right through the line about Gabe being injured in practice, which he hasn't even _been_ too in almost a week now, and want to know what the hell is really going on.

They decide to divide and conquer the phone again, once Gabe's stomach has settled down a little bit and the Advil has at least taken the edge off his headache. They also decide that they don't have to tell _everyone_ , at least not today; for the first little while, they're going to stick to the guys they know best, and the core group. Which is how Gabe ends up finally calling Iggy, the way he'd promised to days ago when he'd driven a drunken, confused, panicking Erik to Gabe's condo at late o'clock at night.

"Took you long enough," is in fact the first thing Iggy says when he answers the phone. "What's up?"

He takes it pretty well. Granted, that's probably because he had at least an inkling, based on drunken, confused, panicking Erik's yelling and overall terror, but he really does take it pretty well. "Let me know if you need anything at all," he says firmly, "and let me know if anyone gives you any trouble -- not that I think they will, but. If anyone does."

Considering that his tone's a bit threatening, it probably shouldn't be all that heartwarming a statement to hear. It totally is, though. "I will," Gabe assures him, trying and failing not to sound touched.

Of course, not everyone's as calm about it. "You're having a _what?"_ seems to be the only thing Matty can say, once he gets over what sounds like a coughing fit triggered by his choking on his own spit. "A _what?"_

"A _baby,_ Dutchy," Gabe says as patiently as he can. "You know. A little tiny human?"

"When did this _happen?_ Oh my God, this is why you've been gone, isn't it? Gabe, what on Earth? A _baby?"_

"Yes, Matt a baby," Gabe parrots back at him. "I thought we went over this?"

Considering that Matt's more or less the closest thing the Avs have to a Canadian hockey robot, Gabe would like to say he was expecting a little more stoicism. Of course, that would imply that he didn't actually know Matt that well at all. In point of fact, he was expecting Matt to at least understand the concept of what a baby _was,_ and how exactly it is that Gabe has come to acquire one -- "Oh my God, you and _EJ?_ Are you _kidding_ me?!" -- but they're getting there.

Of course, he wishes he could say as much about -- literally anything else. There are, as it turns out, approximately a million things to do when you've found out you're having a baby, and nearly all of them are tough to get done without other people realizing that you're doing them in order to prepare for _your_ baby, who is, after all, still a secret to nearly everyone. Going into the hospital for checkups is bad enough, but -- especially once he starts showing, which happens sooner than he'd have preferred -- he can hardly even go out in public at all, let alone to the kind of places he _wants_ to go, to get the kind of things he's finding more and more as the season wears on and brings his pregnancy with it that he _wants_ to buy.

For example: he has to order a large amount of the nursery supplies from the internet, because it's really a lot harder to be recognized out buying baby furniture that way. Maybe he's being paranoid -- actually, considering EJ seems to firmly believe that this is a good idea, he's almost certainly being paranoid -- but, well. It is what it is.

Honestly, he's really confused by the fact that he's already setting up the nursery at all. By about 18 weeks, he's looking at paint chips, trying to match everything to the pale green bedding he's bought.

"We don't even know the sex yet," Erik protests every time he catches him at it. 

"So? Green is gender neutral. Besides, we'll know soon enough."

"You're nesting," Erik sighs. "First the crazy morning sickness, now early-onset nesting. What next?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to," Gabe responds somewhat darkly, and goes back to comparing shades of pale green.

Of course, it doesn't help that Erik's an enabler -- it's not long at all before packages that Gabe _knows_ he didn't order start arriving, as well as all sorts of things from who-knows-where. He's not really sure why Erik thought he needed a new towel set to match the proposed mint-green nursery, but, well, the towels are definitely there and they don't seem to be going away.

It's also, as it turns out, shockingly difficult to have a relationship, or a not-relationship, or talk more than just that once with the pancakes and the fits of self-deprecating laughter about what exactly they're doing with regards to one another, or even do more than occasionally share lingering looks and touches when one's having a baby, and one's partner is a professional athlete who's in other states or countries half the time. 

And also, they're both sort of whimps when it comes to this shit. They make out once or twice, and Erik turns out to give a mean foot massage, but it's -- tough. And Gabe's got a lot of other things on his plate, a lot of other shit to worry about, but that doesn't mean he doesn't worry about this, too.

On top of _that_ , things get even more… well, _more_ when he comes home from the hospital after a checkup that Erik was particularly upset he had to miss for a roadtrip and promptly gets on Skype so he can hold up ultrasound pictures to the grainy-ass laptop camera and beam and say, "She's a girl!"

Erik's face is nothing short of worshipful, but he doesn't seem to be capable of actually saying all that much, instead just staring through the screen silently. The gentle hum of background noise is almost comically loud with the way his mouth is dropped open, practically catching flies, and Gabe catches himself smiling like an idiot.

"Please tell me you're not going to re-plan the entire nursery in pink or something," is what EJ finally manages to produce when he's done gaping, and Gabe snorts at him.

"Of course not, that was the whole point of choosing green," he says. "Green swings both ways. It's fine."

Erik's silent for another long moment, but there's a slow smile curving up his lips, way, way out beyond the reaches of his usual deadpan, snarky persona. His face looks really… soft, somehow, like he's just realized something beautiful. 

"She's gonna be amazing, Gabe," he says quietly, almost too quietly to hear, and Gabe can't help but smile back.

"Of course she is," he says, entirely sure of this in a way he hasn't really been entirely sure of anything for a while. "She's ours."

\---

"What do you think about Annika?" EJ asks suddenly, a little more than two months out from what's been referred to at least once or twice as D-Day, and it's so completely out of nowhere that Gabe can't really help but look at him like he's grown an extra head.

"Uh… who's Annika?" he asks blankly, wracking his brain for any context, any at all, where that would make sense. He just -- really can't think of any Annikas who are mutual acquaintances of his and Erik's. 

"No, I," Erik says, and that's -- is that, is he _blushing?_ Is that what's happening on his cheekbones? "I mean as -- you know, as a name."

Gabe finds himself shocked into silence.

"For the… the baby," Erik finishes, a bit feebly, and all Gabe can do for a second is blink at him.

"You've been -- thinking about this? Baby names?" he asks, tone blank. Then he reconsiders, and adds, " _Swedish_ baby names?"

Something flashes over Erik's face, and he shuts it down so fast Gabe almost misses it, but if he had to make a guess he'd say it was hurt. "Of course I have," he says. "I'm not -- I mean, you're due in two months, Gabe, it's not that weird for me to think about what we're going to _name our child_ , is it?"

Gabe's prevented from responding because of the tiny detail of the _we_. Maybe it's a bit stupid -- that _we_ is implied in everything they do, in the way Erik hasn't actually been home, to his own house, in months, in the way he's refused to let Gabe do any of this alone from the very beginning, in the way they're planning on _coming out together,_ for God's sake, but after all that it still rattles something bone-deep to hear it out loud. 

He hadn't expected a _we_ , when he got that first phone call nearly six months ago. He'd wanted one, of course he'd wanted one, even if he hadn't admitted to even himself, but he hadn't _expected_ it. Actually, he'd expected quite the obvious. 

He doesn't know why this is all hitting him right now -- surely that _we_ has slipped in before, surely it's happened a thousand times -- but he feels like he might start crying if he doesn't make himself stop thinking about this soon.

"No," he says finally, and tries to ignore the way his voice is suspiciously thick. "It's not weird." 

Erik stares at him warily. Gabe can almost hear the wheels turning in his head -- _Hormones? Yeah, probably hormones_ \-- before he slowly, slowly steps into Gabe's personal space and leans forward to hug him, which, for the record, is still weird as hell with the bump involved. Still, it's really, really nice, and Gabe nearly starts crying all over again.

The mood swings are definitely _not_ something he's going to miss about pregnancy.

It takes him a couple of minutes, but he manages to wrap up the sniffling and pull away with a grateful pat to Erik's shoulder. It's only then, of course, that he manages to actually start thinking about the name Erik had suggested in the first place.

"Annika?" he asks, raising his eyebrows, and Erik nods, looking a tiny bit sheepish.

"I mean, I, uh, did some research online, and, yeah," he replies eloquently. For all that he tries to act like he really is a prickly asshole, Gabe finds himself convinced that Erik's really going to make a pretty good dad. Of course, that thought threatens to bring on the waterworks again, so he quickly forces himself away from that particular road.

"Well, at least it's not Anna or Elsa," Gabe says thoughtfully. "I might've had to kill you."

"Aren't they supposed to be Norwegian, anyway?" 

"I know, makes it even wor-- hang on, _how did you know that?_ "

"I have a baby niece and nephew! Besides, you're one to talk, you knew it too -- _stop laughing!_ You're going to hurt yourself! Come on, Gabe, it seriously isn't that funny --"

\---

And, because this is Gabe's life, the baby shower is an exercise in barely-controlled chaos right from the get-go.

For one thing, it's a surprise. He doesn't even know there's going to _be_ a baby shower until one day he gets home from Whole Foods expecting to find an empty condo and instead there are a bunch of burly guys liberally draped in pink streamers sitting in his living room. Luckily he _knows_ all of these burly men, or he would probably have screamed. (Well. He screamed a little bit anyway, and jumped about a foot in the air, when he opened the door. It's okay; the guys had the decency not to laugh at him.)

He's honestly more than a little surprised that they managed to actually keep this a secret; EJ he can understand, but he's definitely seen, say, Matt, who is sitting right there in his kitchen, in the timeframe it must have taken them to plan all of this out if the extravagancy of the decorations and the enormous pile of presents sitting innocently in the corner are any indication, and time, experience, and numerous team poker tournaments have taught him that Dutchy has _no_ poker face.

He only gets about a second to stare, flabbergasted, before someone -- he'll probably never know exactly _who_ \-- yells "Surprise!" and suddenly everyone else is yelling it too, half of them scrambling up to crowd around him and chatter and smile all at once. Gabe just sort of lets it wash over him, because it's a really _good_ feeling and he's not ashamed of wanting to bask in it for a little while, all too happy to let the Whole Foods bags he'd been carrying be taken from him by anonymous hands, presumably in the direction of the kitchen, and then let himself be guided toward the living room by the gentle crush of bodies.

"You guys really didn't have to do this," he finds himself saying as he reaches the couch, eyeing the presents in the corner with something nearing trepidation.

Patrick, who has apparently been waiting on the couch rather than face the mob at the door, grins up at him. "OF course we did," he says almost cheekily, and Gabe narrows his eyes. 

"This was totally your idea, wasn't it," he says, not really a question. All he gets is a smirk in return.

"I helped quite a bit," Erik says, appearing basically out of nowhere -- or so it would seem, according, at least, to Pregnancy Brain, which is a bit flustered by all of the commotion -- to offer Gabe a hand in getting down onto the couch himself. He gladly accepts the help, smiling up gratefully, because, come one. He's man enough to admit he's getting freaking _huge_ , and the help is definitely appreciated from time to time.

They let him hold court for about half an hour before anybody makes any motions toward actually doing anything, such as starting in on the enormous tower of gifts or the cake that Gabe can _smell_ all the way from the kitchen. Luckily, it's a good smell, or else things might have already gotten really exciting. It's not just players there; there are wives and girlfriends too, and front-offices types, and a few assorted miscellaneous friends; if you'd told Gabe a year ago that he'd be attending a baby shower, his _own_ baby shower, and that _Joe Sakic_ of all people would show up a little late, smiling sheepishly and complaining about traffic while holding out a box wrapped in shiny purple wrapping paper, he would quite literally have laughed in your face, but, well. Here he is.

By the time the last somehow-even-later-than-the- _surprise_ -part-of-the-surprise-party stragglers arrive, it really feels more like a straight-up party than a baby shower -- especially once _somebody_ (Gabe won't point fingers, but he has his suspicions -- come on, Dutchy's poker face really _is_ terrible) gets a little impatient and opens up a bottle of champagne before anyone's really done anything yet.

It's about that time that EJ starts casting stern glances around the room and herding people towards the presents. Which -- there are still _entirely_ too many of them. 

There are still too many when they're in the process of being opened, too, and there will probably still be too many when he's done. There is going to be wrapping paper _everywhere_ , Gabe bemoans in his head. _So many_ trees died for this baby shower.

Considering the guest list, maybe the certain theme which makes itself known right from the get-go was more than a little predictable. Still, that doesn't make the tiny burp cloth from Patrick embroidered with ["The Red Wings Make Me Puke"](https://www.etsy.com/listing/122234278/embroidered-baby-infant-burp-cloth-with?ref=sr_gallery_42&ga_search_query=blackhawks&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=US&ga_search_type=all), or the pint-sized Landeskog and Johnson jerseys courtesy of Matt, or the tooth-rottingly adorable little crocheted hockey skate booties for which Nate is responsible any less adorable.

"Where did you even _find_ these?" Gabe asks him, amazed, when he unwraps those. They're clearly homemade -- a little too lumpy to have come out of a factory, and all the more endearing for it. 

Nate turns more or less the color of a ripe tomato. "Uh… I know a guy, who knows a guy?" he stutters, and -- wow. Gabe really doesn't even know how to respond to that. 

It only takes a few seconds of everyone staring at him in confused silence for the kid to crack. "Would you believe me if I told you Steven Stamkos crochets, and Jo Drouin hooked me up?" he mutters, staring resolutely at the couch, and Gabe does a really good job of not laughing his ass off, thanks very much. Erik's got this look in his eyes that says he's dying inside, but whatever, Erik can deal.

"Uh, well," he manages. "Tell… tell Steven thanks? And Jo, too?"

Nate nods wordlessly, visibly relieved to be closing the book on this one, and everyone manages to move on.

It's really a very good party. Singularly so, in fact. Gabe's never actually been to a baby shower before, but, well, he's pretty sure most of them don't involve muscle-bound professional athletes swapping stories about how to get spit-up out of a hockey sweater and teaching little munchkins to skate before they can walk. Clearly this means his baby shower is the best that has ever been.

"You didn't get into the champagne, did you?" Erik asks, suspicious and vaguely horrified, when Gabe says as much later, when things are beginning to wind down a little.

Gabe swats him on the arm. "Of course not, don't be an ass," he sniffs. "It's just nice, that's all."

"Are you _crying?"_ Erik says, somehow vastly more horrified at this notion than he had been at the idea of Gabe drinking in his third trimester. 

_"No,"_ Gabe responds as firmly as he can, but -- okay, so maybe he is, a little. So what? No one's going to tell. Probably. He hopes.

No, that's a lie. Someone will definitely find the most embarrassing time to bring this up in, like, an interview, and somehow he'll end up getting chirped for it, he just knows it. He frantically dabs at the corners of his eyes.

"It's okay, nobody noticed," Erik assures him quietly, quirking an eyebrow in amusement. It's true; a few people have already left, and even those who haven't have mostly taken up residence in the kitchen, eating an unhealthy amount of the very nice, very green cake and engaging in a special blend of shop talk and kid talk. Then he visibly hesitates for a moment, before adding, somewhat apprehensively, "And anyway -- I think so too. It's… a really nice shower."

Gabe rolls his eyes at him, shoving him gently. "Careful, that almost sounded emotional. Warm. Touchy-feely."

"Well, we can't have that," Erik smiles.

Gabe just grins back at him, because he can say what he wants, but Gabe knows firsthand that this is the man who teared up the first time he put his hands on Gabe's stomach and felt the baby kick. For this moment, at least, Gabe's totally got his number, and so does their girl, before she's even been born -- and based on the tiny smile that lingers on Erik's face even as he leads Gabe back over by the elbow to rejoin the party, he totally knows it, too.

\---

Annika Marie Landeskog is born August 2.

She is tiny and bald and pink and wrinkly and chubby and screaming and still a bit damp and Gabe loves her instantly, with a fierceness that startles him.

The first proper glimpse he gets of her, she's being passed from the doctor to Erik, and he's cradling her in his arms and looking at her with this mix of apprehension and wonder that makes Gabe's chest hurt. He just stands there for a moment, staring down into her tiny face, screwed up with the force of her bawling, and shushes her gently; when Gabe moves just enough to catch Erik's attention, he looks down past her and at Gabe instead and smiles slowly, joyfully, and that makes the ache even worse.

There are other people in the room -- doctors, nurses -- and his family and Erik's are just outside, and their friends are just a phone call away, no doubt breathlessly excited to meet the newest member of the team, but absolutely none of that matters right now. All that matters is that Gabe reaches out wordlessly and Erik's whole face crumples, soft and mushy and a little weepy, and he nods and leans down to put Gabe's daughter, _their_ daughter, in his arms for the first time.

Okay, so maybe Gabe's crying a little bit. It's okay; Erik and Annika are crying, too. 

"Hello," he whispers thickly to her once he's got her securely in his grasp. She doesn't stop wailing -- of course not, she's an infant, she doesn't understand what he's saying yet -- but she curls in toward the sound of his voice, just a little. Erik's doing his best to pretend he's not sniffling from his place at the side of the bed, that his breath isn't coming in great shuddering gasps, but when Annika does that, just leans into Gabe and rubs her tiny fingers on the slightly scratchy surface of his hospital gown, he makes an entirely undignified noise and sways forward himself, the three of them just settling into the new feeling of being together for a moment, silent.

Well. Gabe and Erik are silent, anyway. Annika doesn't quite get the memo, but they can probably forgive her.

He's not quite aware of when or how it happens, too busy sniffling and running his thumb over the top of his daughter's (his _daughter's!_ ) bald little head in wonder, but before long the door opens and brings with it a sudden stream of family members -- parents, siblings. Beatrice somehow fights her way through and reaches the side of the bed first, and makes the most awful cooing noise at Annika even as she reaches out to squeeze Gabe's hand.

"Look at her, she's perfect," she says, her face nearly worshipful -- but anything else she, or the rest of the assembled family, might be about to say is cut off by the door nearly slamming open once again. One of the nurses shrieks; Gabe can't blame her.

"Oh my God, is that her?" someone blurts. Correction: that was Matt. That was definitely Matt Duchene. He looks like he has seen the face of God, and the rest of the ragtag group of teammates, plus Patrick, isn't far behind; there are more than a few jaws that look like they're going to have to be scooped up off the floor.

"She's adorable," whispers Tyson like he's afraid if he so much as talks too loudly, he'll break her from all the way across the room. "Oh my God. _Oh my God."_

Erik's pinching the bridge of his nose and wearing the very distinct expression that means he's counting backwards from ten in his head. "None of you are actually supposed to _be_ here."

"Too late for that now," Patrick says breezily, making his way towards the bed. "We heard, so we came. Gabe, she is beautiful. I haven't seen a prettier baby since mine."

"Thank you," Gabe says, trying his very hardest not to feel strangely touched that they've all probably broken several hospital protocols and may at any moment be chased out by security or something. He mostly fails, but, well. There was an effort, anyway. 

A harried-looking nurse manages to squeeze her way through the crowd of hockey players, family members, and probably a bunch of other people who slipped in while no one was looking, who knows, with the sudden size of the group of people crushing around his bed, they could probably even be hiding an elephant in there or something. When she finally gets to the side of the bed, she smiles briefly down at Gabe, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and says, "Excuse me, it's time to take her off for a little check-up. We'll weigh her and measure her and make sure nothing's wrong, all right?"

"Can I come with you?" Erik says immediately; Gabe doubts anyone else will really notice, but he sounds just the tiniest bit nervous at the prospect of letting Annika out of his sight for even a moment.

The nurse raises an eyebrow, glancing around at the bedside menagerie. "You the other father?"

When Erik nods, she nods back and gestures over her shoulder. "You can even carry her. Follow me."

Handing his daughter back over to someone else -- even to Erik, which he wasn't really expecting -- is difficult, more so than perhaps he'd like to admit, but Gabe does it, watches the way Erik very, very carefully cradles her little head and makes sure she's completely secure before he even tries to move towards the door. When he does, the little crowd parts before him like the Red Sea, and Gabe watches with a soft smile as he slowly and steadily makes his way out, following the nurse as she leads him down the hallway and out of sight.

A low level of chatter picks up almost as soon as he's gone, and it settles over Gabe in a warm blanket of familiarity. No one seems much interested in talking to _him_ , instead making conversation with each other -- well, he supposes it's possible they just recognize the look of someone who's dog-tired and not really up for holding up his end of a conversation, he thinks wryly.

It's not long before the combination of the last remnants of the drugs, the easy, comforting feeling of being surrounded by nearly all the people he cares about, and the utter exhaustion trickling through his veins culminate in Gabe nodding right off, the buzz of conversation all around him fading out to nothing.

\---

They come out the same day they take Annika home.

Maybe it's rushing things a little. On the other hand, people are probably going to notice the baby sooner rather than later, and besides -- at least this way Gabe's got a perfectly good excuse to lock himself away in his condo and ignore all forms of media for at least 72 hours. Having a newborn at home, while a bit draining after the first few minutes, turns out to be an excellent distraction from the way his phone is no doubt blowing up in the other room.

The article that breaks on the Avs' website is titled, "It's a Girl!" It's not long; just a short statement that says in simple terms that Gabe's given birth, that he's expected back by early in the season but that they're playing it by ear, that Erik is the father, and that all three of them have the organization's full support. It's concise and clear and there are doubtless a million comments already, but Gabe's not looking at them. This is all according to plan; this statement now, a couple of weeks at home with Annika, and then the both of them will start gearing up for the season big-time. At some point in the next two weeks, he knows, several people are going to come and ask for a little more detail; Avalanche TV has asked to do a video, which will be a good opportunity to get a bit more of the story out, and they're pretty much expecting You Can Play to start banging on the door any day now, and the league will almost certainly make an official statement, and there are a million other things in that same vein buzzing around in his head, just under the surface, but mostly he does a good job of keeping them there instead of letting them out in the open.

Erik… well, not so much. Gabe knows he's checking Twitter, at the very least, and they're still getting the newspaper, so they read the article in the Post the next morning over coffee, Annika cuddled up close to Gabe's chest. It's a very nice article, in that it manages to walk the line between baffled, cautiously supportive, and just plain cautious perfectly, without leaning far enough in any particular direction to ruffle anyone's feathers. 

"Well, it could have been a _lot_ worse," Gabe points out when he folds the sports section back up and tosses it on the coffee table, trying his best not to jostle the baby.

"Try the internet, for example," Erik agrees darkly, glaring briefly at his phone even though it's all the way across the room, like it's somehow personally responsible for assholes on the web. 

He's been doing pretty much that same exact thing since the blog article went live yesterday, and Gabe knows by now to just roll his eyes good-naturedly. "Nobody's making you read that -- stuff, you know," he points out, mentally patting himself on the back for catching himself before he curses. They've come to a mutual agreement that, infant or not, they'd probably best get into the habit of watching their language around Annika sooner rather than later, because, well. Old habits die hard. They're both going to need the practice.

"I know," Erik grumbles. They've already had this disagreement about five times. "But still."

"Your funeral," Gabe tells him, absentmindedly stroking Annika's head where she's sort of nuzzling at his shirt. God, he doesn't think he's ever going to get over how _small_ she is; his hand practically covers her whole body. It's a little terrifying.

Erik waves him off. "I know, I know," he says. "It's just frustrating."

Gabe shrugs as gently as he can, not wanting to disturb what looks like it might be the beginnings of a nap. "We did sort of know that ahead of time."

"Yeah," Erik agrees halfheartedly, staring off after his phone a little longer, but then all at once his face softens and he turns to look at Gabe, and at Annika, the two of them curled up together on the couch; it's still almost alien, having a third little body right there with them, but at the same time it's already strangely, deeply familiar. "Still. It's worth it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's -- it's not like it's for me," Erik says, flushing, but not breaking eye contact. "It's for you, and it's for her. So it's worth it."

Gabe honestly doesn't think he's ever wanted to kiss someone as much as he wants to kiss Erik right at that precise moment. Then again, his daughter is nodding off on his chest, and besides that Erik's sitting on the other side of the coffee table, so he'd have to get up and go around, and it just won't work out. It's hard to be too disappointed, though; after all, they've come this far together, the two -- and now three -- of them. They've been doing just fine, in the long run, and that's no small feat. There will be other moments where he wants nothing more than to lean across the coffee table, or jump over it, or shove it out of the way, whatever it takes, and bury his fingers in Erik's hair and kiss him until neither of them can breathe, and so it's fine that he can't take advantage of this one.

They've got time.

\---

Two Months Later

\---

"Nervous?"

Gabe turns around. Erik's there, all ready to go; it still feels really weird to be standing here in a suit instead of pads and a sweater, but it's just one or two more games, he tells himself. Besides, he's got more important things to worry about.

"About taking our two-month-old daughter out into an arena of screaming people?" he shoots back dryly. "No, why would I be?"

Erik holds up his hands. "Hey, it was your idea."

"Was not!" Gabe would absolutely hit him, except that would require dropping Annika, or at least jostling her, and she's calm and quiet at the moment. Considering what they're about to do, he's going to take advantage of that good mood and do anything he can to keep it going.

"We're about to start," interrupts the harried-looking woman from PR who's been herding him around all evening. "Fifteen seconds." She scurries away again, barking something at someone that's no doubt critically important as she goes. Gabe suspects she'll feel much, much better once this is over with, and he can't blame her. Honestly, he's right there with her, at least right now.

There's a moment of silence, almost antithetical amidst the bustle all around them, as they stand at the head of the tunnel and wait for the announcement that will tell them it's time to go out there. Gabe can just hear the murmur of the crowd, and then the hush as the lights begin to dim.

"Good luck out there tonight," he says suddenly, even though he's already said it at least three times, and Erik looks over, a bit startled, before his face melts into a smile. 

"I will," he says, just as the PR woman reappears seemingly out of nowhere and shoves them lightly on their way, the announcement starting over their heads as they walk. 

It's well-timed; just as they reach the mouth of the tunnel, the excited noise of the crowd swelling as they come into view, the powerful voice of the announcer calls out their names. All three of them: "…and the newest member of the Avalanche family, Annika Landeskog!"

That gets a cheer so loud Gabe's honestly surprised the baby in question doesn't start bawling. By some miracle, though, she's doing okay, just burrowing her face into Gabe's neck. 

As much as he was joking about it with EJ less than a minute ago, Gabe really was expecting to feel more nervous out here. But the Can's just like it always is -- full to bursting for the home opener, a comforting, if deafening, wall of burgundy and blue rising up all the way to the ceiling. And, even better: Erik's right there with him, his smile small but genuine as the three of them make their way out to center ice. 

There's waving and smiling to be done, and Gabe only has one free hand to do it with, but he can't quite stop himself from instead reaching out to grab Erik's hand, before he can think the better of it, and squeezing.

 _That_ gets a yell from the crowd. He's pretty sure it's a good yell, though -- at least for tonight, at least here. He's not an idiot; he knows it's not all going to be walking into the Pepsi Center at the home opener and smiling for an enthusiastic public. Frankly, he's kind of surprised that it's going down like this at all; he wouldn't dare even hope for such a nice reaction the next time he comes out here, not to mention in Minneapolis, in Detroit, in who-knows-where-else. But for tonight -- hell. He'll more than take it.

They finally reach the dead center of the rink, and Erik in his skates gingerly steps onto the carpet where Gabe's been walking to meet the delegation out to meet them. It's a few front-office types, including Joe Sakic, because, well, the organization really _is_ doing its best to prove that everyone fully supports Gabe and Erik and the fans should too, and if that means having one of the franchise's greatest names prominently stand beside them as many times as possible, then that's what they'll do.

Annika's looking a bit more apprehensive now; she's making little noises of distaste up against Gabe's neck, and he drops Erik's hand in order to pat her gently on the back. 

It's just a short little ceremony -- Annika is gifted with _yet another_ tiny little jersey, she's already _wearing_ one and there are two more at home, sooner or later she's not going to be wearing much else, and then they have Gabe do the ceremonial puck drop, baby in tow, and then it's over, quick as that, and they're heading back off the ice again.

There's just something about it -- something about walking off the ice with the noise of the crowd pressing up against his back, with EJ at one side of him, solid and familiar and _there_ , just like he's always been, and with the best little warm, solid weight curled up in his arms, her little head just fitting into the crook of his neck. There's just something about pausing on the threshold of the tunnel to turn back around and face the enormous, dark, noisy, terrifying arena that he loves so much and feeling absolutely complete, and then turning back around with the knowledge that he'll be back out there soon, and having that feeling stay under his skin, warm and somehow soft.

It's okay that he's not going to be out there with the boys tonight; instead, he's going to be sitting in a box, with his daughter in his arms, in her tiny, adorable, custom-made baby-sized jersey, the one that says "Landeskog-Johnson" on the back, because, whatever, it may not be her legal name but he can still put it on her clothing if he wants to. And he's going to watch his team win, and then in a couple of weeks he's going to be out there with them -- and, yeah, it's not going to be easy. Yeah, he's got no doubts that as the season wears on, he'll be seeing fewer and fewer supportive arenas and more and more signs with nasty words printed on them. 

But for now? For now, he's happy enough to be exactly where he is, with exactly the two people he wants to be closest to him, and listen to the noise of the crowd fading into a hum behind him, and knowing that somehow, however and whatever it takes, they're going to be fine.


End file.
